The Brotherhood
by Lady Chal
Summary: When Ezra and Nathan are attacked on their way back to Four Corners, the seven discover a terrifying new movement sweeping the country. Each man must examine the ideals that keep them together ...and the differences that could tear them apart.
1. Chapter 1

**The Brotherhood**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Not making any money off them either. Etc. Etc. Etc.

**Rating: **PG-13****

**Classification: **OW, Angst/Adventure, Ez/Inez, Chris/Mary, Nathan/Rain –Everything but the kitchen sink.**  
Summary: **When Ezra and Nathan are attacked on the way back to Four Corners, the seven discover a terrifying new movement is sweeping the country. As they struggle to stop it, each man must examine the ideals that keep them together …and the differences that could tear them apart.

**Author's Notes: **This started out a while back as a meaningless snippet of fluff in which Ezra gets hurt and Inez nurses him back to health, but somewhere along the line Nathan jumped into the story and he and Ezra decided they had _issues to discuss. The next thing I know those two had the bit between their teeth and were riding this plot down their own trail! –I'm still figuring out where they're going … and I will caution that some of the places they've stopped aren't entirely pleasant, pretty or politically correct, but then neither was the old west. That (hopefully) flame-retardant statement having been made, feedback is, as always, welcomed._

**Chapter One**

            It might have been a pleasant ride, Ezra thought, were it not for the company. The sun was shining, birds were singing and even a few small wild flowers were threatening to bloom along the path down which Chaucer was traveling so eagerly. On any other day, Ezra Standish might have gladly traveled the trail back to Four Corners with a good cigar between his teeth and some fine passage of poetry rolling off his tongue as he whiled away a day's long ride that by all visible signs should have been enjoyable.

            What joy he might have experienced, however, was sadly marred by the awareness of the holes being glared through his back by his sullen companion. He shook his head. He should have realized from the moment Larabee had told him who he was riding out with that this could not end well. He and Nathan rarely managed to be in each other's company for more than twenty minutes before they crossed swords about one thing or another.

            --Not that their trip had started off badly. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. They had arrived in Watsonville in a timely manner and provided Judge Travis with the assistance he had requested for a somewhat sensitive case.

            The job had not been particularly dangerous or difficult. They were merely there to lend a hand to the Sheriff and his deputy during the trial of a man accused of murder. Their duties, in Ezra's opinion, had amounted to little more than window dressing. A simple show of force was all that was required to discourage the rumblings of a lynch mob that had momentarily filtered through the town.

            All in all, it had been a small errand, and easily concluded. By the time the trial was over and judgment pronounced, both he and Nathan had been more than ready to take their leave of Watsonville. It wasn't the worst town he'd ever stayed in –not by a long shot—but he found it to be lacking in the charm and bustle to which life in Four Corners had accustomed him. Aside from a few profitable evenings spent at gaming tables where his face and skill were not known, he had found little about the place that appealed to him.

            The trip back had gone rather smoothly, and he and Nathan had actually passed much of the time in amiable conversation as they had made their way back to Eagle Bend. Whatever tranquility they had enjoyed, however, had been cut short by their visit in that town.

            Ezra sighed. Regrettable as the incident had been, it was not entirely his fault. However, if he were to speculate upon the oppressive silence that had reigned over them since their departure, he could be fairly certain that Nathan had concluded otherwise.

            Swearing under his breath, Ezra drew up on his reins and checked Chaucer's long stride, pulling him abreast of Nathan's sorrel gelding.

            "If you have something to say, Mr. Jackson, then by all means I beg you to speak your mind."

            The healer did not deign to look upon him, but fixed his eyes stubbornly upon a point somewhere between and beyond his horse's ears. "I aint' got nothin' to say to you, Ezra."

            "Well, allow me to retrieve my journal." Ezra said acidly as he reached for the small notebook kept ever-present in his breast pocket for the tabulating of odds and recording of statistics, trivia and other useful knowledge of the gambler's trade. "I must record this milestone event."

            Nathan yanked on his reins, halting his horse more sharply than he had intended. He spared the animal an apologetic pat on the neck and then turned to glare at the gambler. "You just had to go an' open your mouth back there," his tone was accusing. "Just couldn't let well enough alone, could you?"

            "In light of the circumstances, I might have thought a thank you was in order."

            "Thank you?" Nathan gaped at him in mingled outrage and disbelief. "You expect me to thank you for that scene back there? You expect me to thank you for getting us tossed out of that saloon like a couple of second rate hucksters?"

            "I've been thrown out of finer establishments –my own included," Ezra observed dryly. "But forgive me if I am under the impression that our escort out of that deplorable den of inebriation is not what has raised your ire." He shot the healer a calculating look. "What is really troubling you, Mr. Jackson?"

            Nathan glowered at him. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Ezra."

            The gambler eyed him warily. "It was my understanding that the verbal attack in question, though directed at both of us, was addressed to me. I found it only appropriate that I should respond."

            "Was that because you were embarrassed for me, or embarrassed by me?"

            Ezra sighed. They had finally reached the crux of the matter. Somehow, it always came down to this.

            "I don't care for anyone telling me whom I may choose to drink with, least of all those inbred buffoons. But of course, you would make more of it than that. –Tell me, Mr. Jackson, just what is it that you find so abhorrent about me? Is it my profession? –My eye for opportunity? Is it my lack of standards as you perceive them?" His voice dropped to an angry hiss, "Or is it just the fact that my clothes are well cut, my skin is white and my dialect hails from the lilied halls of Carolina?"

            Nathan's eyes darkened with barely controlled fury. "You're a fine one to talk," he spat, his fists clenching tighter on the reins, "you, with your five-dollar words and fancy clothes! You enjoy waltzin' around that saloon like the Lord of the Manor. The ink wasn't even dry on the deed before you hired on Inez to cook, clean and wait on you and everybody else hand and foot. –God forbid you should put in an honest day's work like the rest of us. You're too _fine_ to stoop down to our level."

            Ezra was uncharacteristically at a loss for words as he absorbed the verbal blow. The vitriol of it burned in his throat, and he felt the raging fury shaking through every part of his body as his mind began at last to compose a scathing retort. Whatever he had been about to say went unspoken as he felt the distinctive whisper of a bullet brush past his cheek, followed by the whine and crack of a rifle report.

            "Take cover!" he yelled, putting spurs to Chaucer as three more shots followed in rapid succession.

            Urging their mounts to top speed, they fled from the open clearing of the trail into the rocky ground above them. Halting in the shelter of a large outcropping, Nathan scanned the skyline. "You get a look at them?"

            "No," Ezra said shortly. He holstered the pistol he did not remember drawing and extracted the Remington revolving carbine from his scabbard, "but if I were to hazard a guess, I would suspect they greatly resemble the individuals with whom we exchanged unpleasantries this afternoon.

            Nathan shook his head in disgust. "You just had to go an' open your mouth."

            Ezra spared a glance from the landscape to toss a retort in the healer's direction, but stopped as he noticed the ominous dark stain blooming on the upper sleeve of Nathan's coat. "You're hit," he stated, his voice flat and businesslike.

            "It's not bad," Nathan said dismissively, grabbing his kerchief and awkwardly binding off the wound. It only took a moment for the blood to seep through the makeshift bandage and spread quickly down the sleeve of the jacket.

            "If you say so," Ezra remained unconvinced. "You go any paler and those miscreants up there will think they've shot at the wrong men."

            He swore and fetched his own white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, adding it to Nathan's and tying it even more tightly over the wound. A red stain was spreading through the pristine white cloth before he'd even finished tying the knot.

            Nathan shot him a concerned look. "It must have nicked an artery."

            Ezra studied him carefully. "Can you ride?"

            Nathan shrugged his good shoulder. "Don't have much choice. I haven't got anything with me to take this bullet out. If we stay here, I'll bleed to death."

            "It's two miles to Randall's station," Ezra said, gazing at the rocks above them. All was quiet. "If we make a run for it, we might make it."

            Nathan followed Ezra's gaze. "You think they're still up there?"

            "I would not wager against it." Ezra checked the revolving carbine and reached into his saddlebag for the spare cylinder he kept there. "You go first. I'll lay down some cover fire and follow."

            Nathan nodded and turned his horse, carefully picking a path out of the rocks that would provide them with the least exposure. On the edge of the trail he halted, gathered the gelding and turned to Ezra. Ezra nodded, shouldered the carbine and began laying down fire in what he estimated to be the general direction of the shooter. The sixth shot came all too soon, and he quickly extracted the empty cylinder, dropping it into his coat pocket, then slid and locked the full one in its place. A shot rang out somewhere above him, and he caught the slightest shadow of movement in the rocks. Focusing in upon it, he squeezed off two more shots and was rewarded with a cry and a soft expletive. He grinned. That had gotten their attention. He worked Chaucer down towards the trail and fired off another shot. He hesitated, took two more and then putting spurs to the gelding, he made a run for it.

            The shots that followed were wild and wide of the mark, but it added to the adrenaline rush of both horse and rider, closing the distance between themselves and Nathan within half a mile. Nathan was riding awkwardly, he saw. The reins were clenched in his left hand as he clutched his right arm tightly to himself in an effort to stabilize it. He was clinging to consciousness though, and Ezra prayed it would stay with him long enough for them to make it to shelter. He seriously doubted their odds of survival if he had to tow an unconscious man at a dead run for any great distance.

            The welcome sight of Randall's station broke upon them suddenly as they rounded the bottom of the hill and burst forth into the yard. Smoke was curling from the chimney, and a shotgun barrel peered through a slot in the door as they halted their blowing horses.

            "Stage has gone," a rusty voice said tersely. "What's your business here?"

            "I've got a wounded man," Ezra said, showing his empty hands. "We were ambushed on the trail a couple of miles back."

            A wrinkled, deeply tanned face peered warily behind the muzzle of the gun. "Who are you?"

            "Ezra Standish and Nathan Jackson from Four Corners," Ezra replied, carefully dismounting the horse. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

            "Nope," the old man said, "but I've heard of you. You ride with Larabee."

            "Yes sir," Nathan managed, his face having gone several shades paler in the course of the ride.

            The door was unbolted. "Light an' set," the old man said. "We'll take a look at that arm."

            "Whose tail did you boys twist?" the stationmaster, whose name was Jones, queried as he finished bandaging Nathan's arm with strips of linen torn from a spare shirt.

            Ezra stood beside the doorway looking warily out upon the horizon. "A few individuals in Eagle Bend took issue with our company," he drawled, taking a sip of the wretched coffee the man had offered. "Apparently they decided to pursue the matter."

            Jones raised one bushy eyebrow, clearly crediting the gambler's ability for understatement. Ezra acknowledged it with a shrug. "People are entirely too sensitive these days."

            Nathan grunted. "All this is enough to make me wish we'd taken another way home. We probably should have gone through Dawson's Pass."

            Jones rose from his seat by the fire. "Well, quarrels or not, you were right in coming this way. Now's not the best time to be traveling through the Pass."

            "Oh? Why is that?" Ezra inquired, more out of a habit for polite conversation than any real interest.

            "'Pache's," the old man said. "They been hittin' travelers through the pass for the last couple weeks. Town folk sent for the army, but I doubt they'll be able to find them. Dawson's Pass is the winter hunting grounds. The Apaches got they-selves a little village tucked away up there in the rocks. There's good water and game if you know where to find it, and they do. Any fool of a white man goes stirring around up there and they'll know it. Odds are pretty good they'll be wearin' his scalp before he even gets wind of 'em."

            Jones tossed another log upon the fire. "I got word this afternoon that the Stage line is canceling all trips through the pass 'til further notice. They're gonna run all the stages down this route starting next week."

            The old man sighed and shook his head, "Three trips a week through here, they better send me more horses and help."

            The sun was starting to drop down behind the hills now, casting long shadows from the trees and rocks. Jones measured the remaining light with a calculating eye and then moved to light a lantern. "I reckon you boys might as well spend the night," he said. "There's no sense in riding out 'til you can see where you're going."

            Ezra nodded and tossed the dregs of his coffee out into the dusty yard. He set the battered tin cup on the bench by the door. "I'll see to the horses," he said, and left.

            The dim quiet of the barn had a soothing quality between the sounds of the swallows cooing softly in the rafters, and the horses stomping and chewing contentedly at their fodder. Still, he could not shake the tension that strung itself tightly between his shoulder blades and pulled at the back of his neck. They were out there. He could feel it. They were coming.

            He wasn't sure how he knew it. It was just a sixth sense, a survival instinct that had guided him through a hundred towns and a hundred cons, telling him when it was time to pull stakes and leave. He would have left already, but for Nathan. The healer had lost too much blood on the ride in. It had been a damned miracle he was still sitting upright in his saddle by the time they'd arrived here, and Ezra knew that he was in no shape to continue on tonight.

            The only option, he thought as he forked more hay into the mangers, was to stay and fight. That, and hope Larabee decided to send somebody out looking for them when he and Nathan didn't show in town tonight. He considered the opposition. There had only been four of them there in the saloon. Normally, it would not amount to for him to trouble himself over, fortified as they were in the station with three shooters. But there had been something in the ringleader's eyes as he had spoken. It was an arrogance –no, a confidence—Ezra decided, that made him suspect that if they came this night, they would bring more than four riders with them. He didn't like the feeling that was coiling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever the night might bring, he had a strong suspicion that he wasn't going to like it.

            Setting aside the pitchfork, he brushed the last bits of hay from his shirt and pants, then put on his frock coat and strode back to the cabin. Jones was busy ladling a particularly unappetizing looking stew onto plates of blackened biscuits. Ezra grabbed the coffee pot from the fire and filled the cups before taking a seat at the table across from Nathan. The healer was staring at the food before him with almost as much enthusiasm as Ezra felt himself. He was only half surprised then, when Nathan looked up and flashed him a bashful look.

            "You know that crack I made about you hiring Inez to cook? –I take it back. Might be the smartest thing you ever did."

            Ezra flashed him a nasty, gold toothed grin. "Too late. When I relay your commentary to her, you'll be eating burnt beans for a week."

            "You wouldn't."

            "You're right …I wouldn't," Ezra admitted. "The most likely scenario would result in both of us partaking of scorched lentils."

            Jones returned the stew pot to the fire and took a seat at the head of the table. "I never was no hand with grub and the cook quit two months ago. It's been a sorry state of affairs around here ever since." He took a spoonful of the stew. "Damn! That's awful!"

            Ezra had to privately agree, but managed to down the mess without too many unseemly facial contortions. Unfortunately, the coffee –fresh though it was—was not much better. He pushed back the plate and refilled his cup.

            "You boys are welcome to bunk in here tonight," Jones offered, gathering up the plates and dumping them in a battered enamel dishpan.

            "Thank you, but I believe I will repair to the stable for the evening," Ezra said, "the loft is more than adequate, and the doors will offer a good view to the North."

            Nathan, weary though he was, looked at him sharply, "You think they might try something tonight?"

            "The thought has occurred to me," Ezra sighed. "At this juncture, I am hesitant to put anything past them."

            "Maybe we'd best both keep watch," Nathan said. "We were supposed to deliver those papers from the Judge for the prisoner transfer by this evening so they could get the word out on the telegraph tomorrow. They've got to be wondering why we haven't shown up yet. I wouldn't be surprised if Chris sent somebody out to look for us come morning. It might not hurt to play it safe until then."

            "I'll keep an eye out too," Jones said, rising from the table. He contemplated the coffee pot steaming on the hearth. "I suppose I'd best put more coffee on, we'll need it."

            "Lord forbid," Ezra muttered, grimacing at the black liquid in his cup.

***

            "Ezra, is that you?" Nathan's voice traveled smoothly through the darkness, startling the gambler as he rummaged through the saddle bags he'd tossed on the wooden partition between the stalls after unsaddling the horses.

            "Yes," Ezra replied, quickly laying hands on the object he sought and extracting it from the bag.

            "What are you doing?"  Nathan's voice held the beginnings of suspicion, something that would not bode well for the gambler's plan.

            "I," he said carefully, extracting the stopper from the bottle and splashing a bit of the contents into one of the two cups he carried, "I am endeavoring to bring you a cup of Mr. Jones's wretched coffee with out spilling the foul brew upon my best waistcoat."

            He pocketed the bottle and made an elaborate show of moving carefully down the alleyway of the barn to the feed box where Nathan was seated. He took a seat next to the healer and offered him the tainted cup, then took a careful swig from his own. "This," he declared, "is quite possibly the worst coffee I have ever had."

            Nathan drank some of the questionable brew as well, screwing up his face in distaste. "Well, he sighed, "at least it's hot." He contemplated the cup with puzzlement. "One of the things I will say about Jones' coffee, it never tastes the same way twice. Just wish one of these times he'd make it different enough to taste good."

            "See anything out there?" Nathan asked, nodding his head to indicate the hills that overlooked the stage station.

            "No," Ezra lied, silently counting down the minutes until the laudanum took effect. He had watched the pale line of riders approaching from the west with a feeling akin to cold dread. It was worse than he had thought. As he'd suspected, there were more than four –a hell of a lot more. They were still a several minutes out, moving silently and taking their time. Time, after all, was on their side. He could only hope that he had enough time left to make his play. He had a feeling their lives depended upon it.

            Beside him, he felt Nathan sway slightly and turned to see the healer give him a quizzical look. "Ezra," Nathan began, "did…" he trailed off, sliding sideways into unconsciousness.

            Grabbing a hold of Nathan, Ezra quickly hauled him to the manger beside Chaucer's stall and rolled him into it, along with his gear and the now empty cup of coffee. Grabbing a pitchfork, he stabbed it into the nearest hay stack and began piling large forkfuls of hay over his companion. He heard the soft crunch of a footstep behind him, and turned to find Jones standing there, cradling the shotgun in the crook of his arm.

            "They're comin'," he said.

            "I know," Ezra replied.

            He set down the pitchfork and reached over to jerk loose the slipknot that tethered Nathan's gelding in the stall behind Chaucer. "Take his horse and slip out the back. Push all the company horses down into the rocks behind the cabin. I doubt they'll bother with them then."

            "Where do you want me?" Jones asked.

            "Find a good position up in the rocks," Ezra suggested. "If it looks bad, take my advice. Don't fight, --run. There's more here than you or I can manage."

            "What about your friend?" Jones said, indicating the manger.

            "His best shot at staying alive is if they believe he's not here." Ezra said. "If they ask, I'll tell them we put him on the stage and he's long gone."

            He handed Nathan's gelding to Jones. "Go," he said quietly. "We don't have much time."

            Walking over to the saddles, he extracted Nathan's Winchester from its scabbard, and then stopped, reconsidering. It had been instinct more than anything else that had impelled him to reach for it. On rare occasions, however, his mother's haphazard upbringing returned and counseled him to utilize good sense as well. Every instinct screamed for him to fight. Intuition, however, told him that that way lay death. They were out-manned and out-gunned. To attempt to make a stand here would only result in their imminent deaths –most likely by barbeque—he though sardonically, noting the line of flaming torches that suddenly flared to life perhaps five hundred yards out. No, if he was going to get them out of this with their skins intact, he was going to have to do some very fancy talking indeed. Still, he thought, considering the Winchester, it never hurt to back those words with a subtle show of strength. Tucking the rifle securely in the crook of his arm, he strode out into the yard to meet the approaching band of white-robed riders. His time had just run out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

            J.D. stifled both a yawn and a complaint as he turned up the collar of his jacket in a futile attempt to ward off the chill of the early morning. He was a little more than half awake, and for once entirely out of sorts with the situation. Ezra and Nathan had not returned yesterday afternoon, and Larabee had appointed him and Buck to ride out in the morning to search for the wayward men. He himself had taken morning to mean after breakfast –or at earliest, first light. Buck, on the other hand, had placed an entirely different interpretation upon the appointed time, and rousted him from his bed and a particularly pleasant dream a full two hours before the first hint of light began to touch the sky.

            He might have grumbled more, if it hadn't been for the restless energy that had possessed the larger man ever since they had left town. Buck was on edge –an unusual condition for the normally easy going ladies man—and one that telegraphed itself easily to his young protégé. He could see no reason for it himself.  Likely Ezra and Nathan had just run into some unforeseen delay and would be in later this morning. But if J.D. had learned anything during his brief time in the West, it was that Buck Wilmington's hackles didn't rise without good reason. So he said nothing, merely hunched miserably in his saddle and hoped for the rapid warmth of the morning sun. They were nearly to the stage station when Buck abruptly pulled up his gray.

            "What is it?" J.D. asked quietly.

            The kid was learning, Buck thought. A year ago, he'd have hollered the question loud enough to be heard in the next county.

            "Somethin' ain't right," Buck muttered, leaning over the gray's neck and surveying the dingy cluster of buildings below. Dawn was just sparking over the rocks behind them, touching the gray landscape here and there with brilliant strokes of golden red light.

            "Ezra's horse is there," J.D. said, observing the familiar form of the chestnut gelding that wandered loose in the corral.

            "Yeah, but Nathan's ain't." Buck said. "Neither are the coach horses. The stage left out yesterday afternoon. There should be at least another team there, resting up for the next run."

            He scrutinized the cabin and outbuildings. "No sign of anybody about the place, either. I don't like it."

            "Maybe they ran the horses out to graze," J.D. suggested. "There's a good patch of grass and water down in the draw behind those rocks."

            Buck shook his head. "Nah, Kid, this just don't feel right."

            He nudged the gray into a slightly different position and observed the buildings from the new angle. No smoke curled from the chimney, and judging from the sun's position, it was pushing mighty close to breakfast. His hackles pricked a little more.

            "Hey Kid, you still got that fancy spy glass Vin lent you?"

            J.D. reached into his coat pocket and produced the glass. "What's got you spooked, Buck?" he asked. "You've been on edge ever since we left."

            Buck focused the glass carefully, scanning each small detail of the yard. "I got a bad feeling," he said. "If it was just Ezra, I'd have thought nothin' of it. I'd just have figured he found hisself a card game, or a con, or –hell—maybe even a pretty girl."

            "But Nathan," Buck continued, "now that's a different hoss all together. Dependable as the day is long, Nathan is, and as punctual as a pony at feeding time. It ain't like Nathan to be late, let alone leadin' us on a merry jaunt like this."

            "Maybe something came up." J.D. suggested.

            "Yeah," Buck muttered, "that's what I'm afraid of."

            Finding nothing amiss with the cabin, save the stillness that was not to his liking, he turned the glass to the barn. It was a simple structure with large double doors on each end which led to a central alleyway with stalls on either side. Just then, another gust of wind caught the barn doors, flapping one gently and swinging the other slowly, inexorably outwards to reveal the still figure that swung eerily in the morning breeze.

            "Holy God," Buck breathed. His voice was as dry as the long grass that waved behind the cabin, "its Ezra!"

            He thrust the glass at J.D. and put spurs to the gray, drawing his gun even as he did so. They tore down the slope in a headlong rush, heedless of the rough, uneven ground.

            Buck didn't bother to dismount, but pushed the gray through the doors, eyes casting to the left and right for ambush. J.D. did not follow, but broke off and circled around to the other end, entering the barn from the doors on the opposite side. They met in the middle, the gambler's silent, still form swinging between them.

            They hadn't hung him by the neck, as J.D. had feared, but somehow this was almost worse. He had been bound and hung by the wrists, which were raw and bloody from his struggle. That, however, could not begin to account for the blood. It was everywhere. It spattered Ezra's too still face and ran down the loose tail of the rope. It soaked through the gambler's once pristine white shirt and charcoal trousers, pooling in an ominous dark puddle on the dusty floor of the barn.

            "Is he…" J.D. swallowed, feeling the bile rise to his throat. "Is he dead?"

            Buck nudged the gray closer. The animal snorted and rolled her eyes, disliking the swinging body and the smell of the blood. He spoke softly to the mare, sidling in close enough to feel for a pulse.

            "He's alive," Buck pronounced grimly, "but not by much. Help me get him down."

            J.D. untied the blanket from his bedroll and wrapped Ezra in it as Buck yanked loose the knot on the block and tackle and slowly lowered him to the ground. The gambler's body was a dead weight in J.D.'s arms, and he wondered if Buck might have been mistaken. The soft moan reassured him, however, and he lowered Ezra to the ground, rolling him onto his chest, which seemed to be the least damaged part of his person.

            "What did they do to him?"  
            "Horsewhipped," Buck spat, "And not by an amateur either. The man who did this knew how to handle a whip, and he shore didn't learn it drivin' mules."

            A soft thud from the manger behind them was followed by a rustling of straw. J.D. instinctively reached for his gun, shooting a sideways glance towards Buck, who had done the same. The older man gave a subtle nod, and the two of them sidled carefully down the alleyway, their guns trained on the manger before them.

            A cough, another thud, and then a weak but familiar voice emerged from under the straw. "Ezra, you there?"

            Buck swore and holstered his gun. "Nathan!" he exclaimed, relief etched in every line of his body as he scrambled to the manger and began digging through the hay. He was rewarded by an ebony hand that poked up from the sweet-smelling grass.

            "Buck?" Confusion was evident on Nathan's face. "What are you doing here?"

            The healer looked around in bewilderment. "Come to that, what am I doing here?"

            Nathan struggled to get up, then fell back, gasping at the pain that radiated from his arm.

            "You're hurt," Buck observed, helping his friend to his feet.

            Nathan glanced to the bloody bandage that bound his upper arm. "Ezra and I had a bit of a skirmish on our way from Eagle Bend. Couple of fellas took exception to a black man and a white man drinking together and decided to start a little row. It didn't go well for them. I think they must have been still spoilin' for a fight. They followed us and one of them got off a lucky shot."

            "Musta been pretty damned lucky to get the drop on you," Buck observed, "Whoa!" he said quickly, steadying the healer. "You ok?"

            "Just a little woozy is all," Nathan said, regaining his balance. "—Not that I was feeling that good when we stopped here." He shook his head. "Damn! I think Ezra slipped some of that laudanum in my coffee."

            "Buck?" J.D.'s voice called faintly from outside with a note that Buck recognized as bad news. "I think you better come here."

            Both men strode outside to find J.D. standing behind the barn, staring glumly at something in the water tank. Nathan sighed as he looked down at the lifeless form.

            "It's the stationmaster," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "What the hell happened here?"

            Buck shook his head. "I don't know, but you'd best come take a look at Ezra. Somethin' tells me he just might have saved your life."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

            He had died. He had died and gone to Hell. He shouldn't have been all that surprised, he supposed, especially considering the life he had led. Still, he had hoped that the last two years he'd spent defending the good citizens of that backwater scrap of civilization would have counted for something. –An extended stay in Purgatory, at the very least.

            Apparently, it had not. He had died and gone to Hell, and the flames of the devil's furnace were licking at his back. It was the only logical explanation he could think of for the excruciating agony he felt with each breath. And yet, it didn't quite fit.

            For one thing, Hell was quieter than he had imagined. Where were the wails of the eternally damned? He opened one eye experimentally and blinked against the brightness of the morning sun. Somehow, he doubted the eternal destination in question would be decorated with white lace curtains, either. Perhaps, he thought, he was not dead after all.

            Opening his eyes again, he took stock of pleasanter things. The room was comforting and familiar somehow, though he could not quite place it. The window was open and the sound of voices filtered up from the street. It was only when he identified the voice of Mary Travis, calling for Billy, that he knew for certain he was home –or as close to it as he was likely to get. He discerned the soft clamor of voices that emanated through the floorboards and determined that he was in his old rooms above the saloon. –The ones he had vacated when Maude had overtaken him and hired Inez in his stead.

            He heard the soft, light footfalls of a woman's step drawing near, and cursed his luck as the door creaked open. Maude must have returned. It was the only explanation he could muster for why they had brought him here instead of to his regular room at the boarding house. No doubt, she intended to see her "darling boy" back to health. –That was unfortunate. Maude's instincts as a nursemaid were even more deficient than those as a mother.

            A shadow moved across the window and a tray lit squarely on the bureau with a soft rattle of china. He risked opening one eye to see a small wash basin, a rag and a bowl filled with a mysterious green goo. A feminine hand brushed his shoulder as the thin cotton sheet was turned gently back from his body. He attempted to feign sleep, but the first touch of the damp cloth against his flayed skin left him yelping and swearing.

            He buried his face into the clean cotton sheet as the hand and then the pain relented, and idly wished they might have at least left him a pillow. At least then he might have smothered himself and ended this misery. He growled as he heard the ominous sound of the cloth being rinsed and wrung out for another go.

            "Really, Mother," he mumbled, "I admire the sentiment that has brought you to my side in my moment of infirmity, but I beg you, let someone else tend my wounds before you kill me with your ministrations."

            "She wouldn't come." The voice that answered him was crisp and melodious, with an undeniable Spanish accent. "I telegraphed her, but she said you were a terrible bore when you were sick and that she would visit when you felt better."

            "Inez!" Ezra gasped with horrified outrage. He attempted to lever himself up to look at her, and then thought better of the movement. Not only did it hurt like Hades, but he had become uncomfortably aware of the fact that the sheet which had slipped precariously down his hip was all that was maintaining his modesty.

            "Si," she said brusquely, dabbing once more at his back with the damp cloth. He flinched at the contact, and sucked in an involuntary breath to keep from swearing as he likely would have done had it been Maude in her stead. Her touch gentled somewhat, becoming even more delicate as she attended to the more abraded portions of his back. Still he could not quite manage to suppress a groan as she reached a particularly sensitive area.

            She paused to risen and wring the cloth again. "This is going to hurt," she said, "but it has to be cleaned before it becomes infected."

            He expelled the long, slow breath he had been holding. "It already does," he said, wearily, and raised his head just enough to glance about the room.

            "Is my frock coat about?"

            "Si," she responded, and turned to retrieve the garment from the back of a chair. It was, he noted ruefully, about the only part of his ensemble to have survived the ordeal.

            "Inside pocket," he muttered.

            Obediently, Inez reached in and extracted the items, drawing out a thick packet of letters from Maude, a stray ace of spades liberated from some deck or another and the object which he sought. Opening the flask, she took a small whiff, wrinkled her delicate nose, and passed it to him.

            He drained the entire contents, and was rewarded with a fire that burnt only a little less fiercely than his back. He returned the flask to Inez and collapsed back onto the bed. It would still hurt like hell, but at least he wouldn't care as much.

            Inez returned to her ministrations and he buried his face into the mattress, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. She began to talk and he tried to concentrate on her words in a feeble attempt to take his mind off the agony.

            "They brought you in yesterday with Señora Travis's buckboard.

            "I don't remember," he confessed.

            "It is probably for the best. It could not have been a pleasant ride."

            "Nathan?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully flat.

            Inez paused, and then laid a hand upon the back of his head. "He is fine." Her voice was reassuring. "The bullet went through the arm and nicked an artery, but you must have treated it well enough. He lost some blood, but he will mend."

            Ezra closed his eyes, too relieved to speak. He had not told them, then. He had wanted to. Near the end, he had thought he might tell them anything they wanted to know, if only it would make them stop. He could remember biting his lip and tasting the blood, biting even harder as he heard the sickening slap of the leather against his bloody flesh. He could still feel the blows and the hot rivulets of blood that had trickled down his back.

            As a slave, Nathan had already endured this, he told himself. He would likely face worse if they discovered where Ezra had hidden him. Would he himself be any less a man? He clenched his teeth so tight, that he thought they might snap from the exertion, and then, he had done something he had never truly attempted before: he had prayed. He had prayed for unconsciousness. He had prayed for oblivion. He had prayed for death. If he were dead, he thought, they would stop. If he were dead, then he would not break. If he were dead, then he would no longer be tempted to give Nathan up to them. What's more, he would not feel.

            The Almighty appeared to be rather selective in his responses, however. Although he had granted the temporary oblivion, and Nathan's reprieve, he had seen to it that Ezra also lived to feel every lash. He was still debating whether or not to be grateful for this last oversight when Inez straightened away from him.

            "There," she said with satisfaction, "the worst part is over."

            She reached for the bowl of green muck. Ezra eyed it skeptically. "Is that one of Nathan's concoctions?"

            "No," she scooped a bit of the bright green mixture onto her fingers. "It is one of mine, an old remedy my Grandmother used to make. It will relieve some of the pain."

            "What's in it?" His voice was doubtful.

            "Some herbs, a few desert plants, and a bit of aloe."

            He recalled the bits of herbs and greenery that Inez was always coaxing to grow in the pots and bowls on her window ledges and behind the saloon. "It must have decimated your supply," he said.

            "They will grow back," she assured him, "although the food may be a little bland for a few weeks."

            She began to carefully dab the salve over the cuts and he was surprised at the almost instant relief it granted.

            "At least it smells better than Nathan's salves," he sighed.

            He closed his eyes and let her work in silence as his mind turned over the strange circumstances that had brought him here. He still could not quite understand why he was here, rather than in his own rented room at the boarding house, or on the spare cot in Nathan's clinic, where most of them revived after such damaging encounters.

            Inez drew the sheet perilously low to work at a cut that ran from his ribs to his hip bone, and he wondered if he perhaps should broach the subject while he was still capable of speech.

            "Inez," he began, somewhat tentatively, "How is it that I came to be here?"

            "I told you," she said patiently, "They brought you back in Señora Travis's buckboard."

            "Yes, but why here?" he persisted. "Why not to Nathan's clinic?"

            "Who else would care for you?" she asked simply. "Nathan is still too weak, and you can not care for yourself. Señora Travis offered, but it would not have been proper. I told them to bring you here."

            "Are you certain that was wise? People will talk."

            "People already talk," her voice was arid. "I saw no need for them to speak so of a lady like Señora Travis when they already have such expectations of me."

            "Nice to see you were concerned for my good name and reputation," he said dryly.

            Inez snorted. "Your reputation is already well established," she said with amusement. "How could we not?"

            She scooped up a bit more of the ointment and pursued another welt that crept even further below the sheet.

            "Inez!" he gasped, grabbing for the thin cotton.

            She stopped to consider him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You blush like a school girl, no? Is it not a little late to be worried about your modesty?"

            "Apparently so," Ezra snapped, "Although I thought it would have been of greater concern to you."

            Inez shrugged. "Por que? It is nothing I and half the women in town have not already seen."

            Ezra bit back a curse. He was never going to live down that damned poker game with Big Lester Banks. "You shouldn't have to endure idle gossip on my account," he said at last.

            Inez shook her head as she wiped her hands on the wash cloth. "Ezra, I am an unmarried Mexican woman who lives above a saloon and serves drinks to men for a living. There is more than enough idle gossip spread about me as it is. What is a little more?"

            She cocked her head to look at him. "Your reputation is little better than mine, so what should it matter to either of us?"

            "It matters to me," he said quietly.

            She sighed and drew the sheet gently over his shoulders. "I know," she said at last. "You are a gentleman. That is why I offered to do this."

            She laid a gentle –almost motherly—hand upon the back of his neck. "Sleep," she instructed softly, "and when you wake, I will bring you something to eat."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

            Vin Tanner studied the tracks with a practiced eye, letting his gaze slowly travel over the width of the station yard. He bent for a moment, tracing a finger across the fading impressions in the clay and then straightened to his full height.

            "Well, I gotta hand it to Ezra," he said, walking over to retrieve his reins from Larabee. "When he pisses somebody off, he don't do it by halves. I count at least a dozen riders, maybe more."

            Chris shook his head as he contemplated the stage stop and its rough outbuildings. "It doesn't make sense," he said at last. "The Judge's papers were still in Ezra's coat pocket, along with his money. They didn't take any of the horses, the stage had already left and there wasn't even a gold shipment on it this week. What could they have been after?"

            "Off hand, I'd say they were after Ezra and Nathan," Buck said, leaning thoughtfully over the neck of his gray.

            "You think it was those guys Nathan was talking about?" J.D. wondered, "The ones they tangled with in Eagle Bend?"

            Vin shook his head. "It doesn't add up. A situation like that, they might be riled enough to grab leather there in the heat of the moment, but this was hours after the fact. Most folks would have cooled off long before then."

            Chris squinted into the afternoon sun, towards the trail that led to Eagle Bend. "Vin's right," he said. "This goes way beyond some heated words in a bar brawl. Whoever these fellas are, they were serious. They didn't just head out after Nathan and Ezra, squeeze off a couple of shots at them and call it good. They came back, and they brought company."

            "Still," Buck said, "it's the only thing we've got to go on."

            Chris leaned heavily on his saddle horn, meditating upon the matter. "What did Nathan say about these guys they tangled with?"

            Buck shrugged. "Not much. Just that when he and Ezra stopped to wet their whistles and rest the horses there were a couple of fellers there who didn't like it."

            "How so?" Chris demanded.

            Buck shifted uncomfortably. "Let's just say they took exception to folks of Nathan's general description bellyin' up to the same bar as they did. Then Ezra opened his trap, they got an earful of his Dixie dialect and they went plumb loco. Nathan said Hank tossed the whole lot of 'em out on their ear, --him and Ezra included."

            Chris chewed over this bit of information. Unpleasant though it was, it wasn't an unusual occurrence in this country, --or anywhere, for that matter. But he had seen less of it as their presence had become more established in the territory. Rarely did anyone question Nathan's presence in their group for fear of incurring the wrath of the other six. Those who did were quickly silenced by some better-informed bystander who pointed out the dangerous ground upon which they were treading. Still, Chris was well aware that even in Four Corners Nathan was only accepted openly because they themselves accepted him. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but there it was.

            So he could see how the events in the saloon at Eagle Bend might have come to pass: Two men, relative strangers, entering a saloon in a town not their own might have seemed a likely target for some. He considered the possibilities, drawing from his knowledge of Nathan and Ezra to surmise how the events must have unfolded. Nathan likely would have played it cool, perhaps even brushed it off and moved on rather than risking any unnecessary gun play. –Except for Ezra. The smooth talking gambler was easily irritated upon occasion, and as Buck had so neatly put it, he wouldn't be able to resist opening his trap.

            But Vin was also all right, beyond the initial anger and temptation to draw iron, the situation should have cooled off quickly, not escalated as it appeared to have done. Chris frowned; it all came back to one thing. He eyed Buck sharply.

            "Did Nathan happen to mention exactly what it was Ezra said?"  
            "No," Buck said, "He kinda glossed over that part."

            Larabee straightened in his saddle and gathered up his reins. "Then maybe we oughtta ride to Eagle Bend and find out."

            Chris Larabee swallowed the drink set before him in one slow, measured gulp. He set the glass back down on the bar with a careful but audible thud.

            "I want names."

            If the bartender was intimidated, he didn't show it. Instead, he emanated an air of practiced indifference as he chewed on the stub of his extinct cigar and wiped a dingy glass that was no cleaner for the effort.

            "Ain't got names," he replied at last. "This is a saloon, not a social club. The only thing I give a damn about is their money."

            "Aw, come on, Hank," Buck purred, allowing a dangerous edge to enter his voice, "there ain't a damned thing happens in this town that you don't know about."

            Hank eyed the two men with carefully measured annoyance. "Like I said," he reiterated, pulling the cigar from his teeth and leaning across the bar, "I didn't get any names, just their money. None of 'em made much talk 'til those friends of yours showed up, and then I booted the lot of 'em out before they busted up the place."

            Larabee reached for the bottle and poured another drink. "Tell us about it."

            The bartender shrugged, his wild mane of red-gold hair cascaded over his shoulders. He pushed it back with a wave of his hand and poured himself a drink as well with the glass he had been wiping.

            "Not much to tell," he said. "Them four fellas were sittin' over there in the corner, mindin' their own business 'til Standish and the other one walked in. Your friends ordered drinks an' sat down at a table over on the other side.

            "The other four didn't care for it much –a white man drinkin' with a darky—not to mention him comin' in here an' bein' served with the white folk. They started to spout off about it. Made noise about showin' him who his betters was."

            "Then what happened?" Larabee's voice held the flat, toneless quality that Buck recognized as the signs of a hot rage brewing.

            Hank downed the drink and returned the cigar to his mouth. "The darky didn't say nothing, just went all stiff an' quiet. Then Standish mouthed back at 'em with a few of those high brow words of his. Don't ask me what he said, exactly, I barely understood it. I ain't sure they did either, truth be told. But when they heard that Southern drawl of his, all hell broke loose. Called him a nigra-lover and might have jumped him right there 'cept he and his friend had their guns out."

            Hank shrugged. "So I picked up my shotgun an' told the lot of 'em to git. You gotta understand; I don't mind their kind in my place. Their money is as good as any body else's, but gun play is bad for business."

            "Mighty enlightened of you," Buck muttered. "What happened after that?"

            Hank nodded towards the doorway. "They left. Standish and the other one got on their horses and rode out. The other four walked on up the street."

            "Any idea who they were?" Larabee asked.

            The bartender shook his head. "Nope. They were only here a couple of days and they paid in coin." He paused. "I did hear one of em' call another Hans. --Sounded like they might be workin' for him. That's all I know. Any more questions?" he asked, sarcastically.

            Chris raised his eyes from the whiskey in his glass to contemplate his own reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bar. His features were calm –pleasant even—but he could feel the anger that roiled in his gut. Likewise, it radiated off the big man who stood beside him. The more the bartender had talked, the tighter the muscles in Buck's face had become until he resembled a mad dog, straining at the end of a rope. The black devil within him decided to cut the dog loose.

            "Buck?" he queried, smiling gently to his friend.

            "Just one more thing," Buck said mildly.

            Wilmington's arm darted out in a lightning move and he grabbed a handful of the bartender's flowing red locks, yanking him over the bar and slamming his head down into the counter top. There was a sickening crunch as his nose broke, and blood began to ooze out onto the scarred surface. Larabee watched impassively as Buck pinned Hank's face to the counter, and then shoved his own angry countenance within a few inches of it.

            "That 'darky' as you called him is a friend of ours, and the only 'kind' he is, is a man. His name is Nathan Jackson, that's _Mr. Jackson to you. I suggest you don't forget it."_

            Anger boiled in the bartender's eyes, but he managed to control it as he rolled the one blue eye that was visible from Buck to Chris. "Anything else?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

            Larabee downed the last of his drink and nodded to Buck to release the man.

            "No," he said pleasantly, setting the glass down on the bar and stepping away. "I think that pretty much covers it."

            Vin Tanner was reclining against the hitch rail, the picture of indolence, as they left the darkened interior of the saloon for the too-bright street of Eagle Bend.

            "Find out anything?" Chris asked, squinting at the tracker.

            Vin straightened away from the rail and nodded down the street in the direction from whence he had come. "Four of 'em put their horses up at the livery for the last couple of days. They paid in gold coin. Livery man reset a shoe for one of 'em. --Said the guy was riding a big roan gelding with a long stride and a crooked front foot." He looked squarely at Chris, "There was a track back at the station that matches up to a horse like that."  
            "When did they leave?" Chris asked.

            "About half an hour after Ezra and Nathan. They haven't been back since."

            Buck nodded. "That pretty much fits with what Hank told us, includin' the little dust-up in there."

            Vin's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

            Chris frowned. "It was pretty much what we figured. They seemed to have a problem with a black man and a white man drinkin' together."

            Buck's face darkened. "I swear I will never understand people like that. We fought a war over it, for chrissakes, and they still can't let it go."

            Chris sighed. "That kind of hatred doesn't just go away, Buck. It's gonna take a lot more than war to put an end to it."

            "What will?" Buck wondered.

            Chris shook his head. "I don't know. That's a question more down Josiah's alley, I think."

            "Hey, fellas!" They turned to see J.D. dodging quickly up the street from the boarding house towards them.

            "After we talked to the hostler, I sent him around to check out the hotels and the boarding house," Vin said, watching as J.D. skipped eagerly around a couple of bystanders in front of the mercantile. "Looks like he did."

            "Did you get any names?" Chris asked, as J.D. approached them.

            "One," J.D. said, pausing to catch his breath. "Guy who paid for the room was named Detweiler, H. Detweiler. Lady who ran the place said he seemed to be in charge of them."

            "H. Detweiler. –Hans Detweiler," Chris said, putting it together with what the bartender had told them.

            Vin frowned. "I don't recall having heard that name before."

            "No," Buck agreed, "me either. He must be new to the country."

            "Well," Chris said, "it's a place to start."

            J.D. looked anxiously at each of them. "There's something else," he said. "A couple was burnt out of their cabin last week. The place was just a few miles north of here. They killed the husband and the wife was pretty badly beaten."

            J.D. hesitated, and Larabee had a sinking feeling about what would come next. 

            "They were both ex-slaves."

            "I get the feelin' that this ain't a coincidence," Buck's voice was tired.

            "Where's the woman?" Larabee asked.

            "At the boarding house up the street," J.D. said. "Some friends are looking after her."

            Beating the dust from his hat and clothes, Chris stepped out into the street. "Let's go see if we can have a talk with her. Maybe she can tell us if the men who jumped Ezra and Nathan are the same ones who attacked her and her husband."

            "And if they are?" Vin asked.

            "Then I'll want them twice as bad."

            "Ghosts," the old woman muttered hoarsely. "They wasn't men, they was ghosts. White demons with holes where they eyes supposed to be. They have no eyes. –They have no souls."

            She shifted restlessly on her pillow, coughing and struggling with each raspy, shallow breath. "They kilt my Jesse. They run him down with they horses. Then they rope him an' drag him to the barn."

            Her voice cracked, flooding with tears. "He was so proud of that barn, built it hisself he did." She shook her head. "Maybe they think he too proud. They hang him from his own rafters, and they burn him in it."

            Chris felt the bile rising in his own throat as the woman's words conjured images from his own scorched memories. His fingers clenched involuntarily, and he willed them to relax. Reaching out, he took her frail, ebony hand in his own white one and squeezed it sympathetically.

            "How many of them were there?" He was surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice.

            "Twelve," the old woman said, turning to him with clear eyes and unbroken will. "They was twelve."

            They smelled it before they saw it. The putrid, bitter smell of the fire carried on the breeze and churned the bile in Chris's gut with every step of the black's smooth gait. Beside him, Buck was quiet and grim, casting nervous glances in Chris's direction. Wilmington knew only too well the thoughts that were traveling through the dark gunman's mind. As always, Buck could not help but feel his own heavy dose of guilt for convincing Chris to stay that extra night in Mexico.

            "Aw, Hell," he muttered as they topped the rise and saw the smoking ruins of the ranch below. It was the Larabee place all over again.

            Chris said nothing, but urged the black forward into the ranch yard, his hands clenched and white on the reins. Vin was already ahead of him, swinging down from his rangy gelding to study the tracks that were barely visible in the hard packed dirt of the past week. He circled the ruins of the house, pausing at last beside the charred ruins of an overturned rain barrel. He studied the ground around it and smiled. The water had flooded the earth here, turning the dusty clay to mud and capturing the impressions of the horses' feet as they had churned over it.

            "It's them all right," Vin pronounced. He looked up as Chris drew near and pointed to indicate a hardened hoof print. "Same as the one that left the tracks in the barn at the stage stop."

            "And the others?"

            "Three others here that I can make out. Looks like the same ones, but they've faded a mite. It's hard to be sure."

            He toed the track in front of him, "This one though, this is the same as the man at the livery described: big horse with a long stride and a crooked left front. It's just like the one back at the stage stop." Vin looked up at Chris, a cold resolve shining in his blue eyes. "I doubt there's another horse like that in these parts. –I'd know that track anywhere."

            "Chris! Vin! Come take a look at this!" J.D. called to them across the charred ruins of the house.

            Circling around to the other side, they found J.D. and Buck staring at something driven into the middle of the front yard. Upon closer inspection, they recognized it for what it was: the charred remnants of a cross.

            "What do you think it means?" Buck asked.

            "I don't know, but I intend to find out," Chris replied.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

            The sun was no longer shining brightly through the window when he woke. Instead, it was beating down upon the roof above with a sweltering intensity. The room was hot and still. The lace curtains, which had fluttered so gaily in the morning breeze, now hung limp and wilted.

            Ezra closed his eyes again and wished for a return to the oblivion of sleep, but knew that it was futile. His head throbbed with the afternoon heat, and his back burned in fiery agony. The soft clamor of voices emanating through the floor boards below indicated that it was well into the noon hour, and he did not expect Inez to come until after the lunch hour had passed. The thought provided him with little cheer. He could have done with her suggestion of something to eat about now. He would have gladly killed for a drink, preferable whiskey. Water came a close second.

            Blinking slowly, he waited for his eyes to come into focus, settling at last upon the water pitcher Inez had placed upon the bureau. It was tantalizingly near, and he wondered if he might be able to reach it himself. The way his luck had run as of late, the damned saloon would be busy all day. By the time Inez returned, there might be little left of him but a mummified corpse.

            It was agony to move, but he was under no delusions of anyone coming to his aid any time soon. Under better circumstances, he could have at least counted upon Nathan to show up periodically, but as bad as the healer had looked when he'd seen him last, Ezra did not expect him to be making the trip up the street from the Grain Exchange for a while. Even if Nathan was back on his feet, Ezra seriously questioned whether or not he'd be willing to come, considering the words they had exchanged. He pushed himself away from the course of his thoughts. None of this was getting him any closer to the damned pitcher.

            He swore as he levered himself up onto his elbow, incessant, bitter curses that at least gave him something else to focus on as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He drew a deep breath, face and knuckles white with pain as he girded himself for the next step. He eyed the pitcher balefully. Maybe the damned water wasn't worth it after all.

            "You shouldn't be up."

            It was fortunate, he thought, that the deep familiar voice was that of a comrade. He was in no condition to receive an adversary. Nathan moved into his line of vision somewhat stiffly, but apparently unscathed save for the large triangle of linen that cradled his right arm.

            Ezra snorted. "You are a fine one to lecture. According to Inez, you are no fitter than I to be engaging in an afternoon perambulation."

            Nathan shot him a rather blank look and shook his head as if to clear it. "Dang, Ezra. Why have you always got to use such big words?"

            "Consider it my contribution to the edification of society," the gambler replied, accepting the glass that Nathan offered.

            The water was tepid, but refreshing enough and he felt the throbbing in his head lessen a bit. He handed the glass back to Nathan, who appeared to be contemplating him with intense speculation.

            "Why?" Nathan asked at last, his voice so soft as to barely be heard. "Why did you do it?"

            "Honestly? –I don't know," Ezra admitted, "though I believe I imagined some logic in the plan at the time." His brow furrowed. "I underestimated them. –It is not an error a man in my profession can afford to make."

            He sighed. "Perhaps Mother is right," he mused, "I am getting soft."

            "Damn it, Ezra!" Nathan exploded, "Don't give me that! You knew exactly what was going to happen back there! You knew you didn't stand a chance in hell of facing them down yourself, and you went back and did it anyway! What I want to know is why? Did you think you could talk your way out of it?"  
            "As you have taken such pains to point out, Mr. Jackson, self-sacrifice is not one of my attributes," Ezra said dryly. "I was planning on departing the premises with all due haste."

            Nathan's fist slammed down on the bureau with enough force to rattle the mirror. "Don't play games with me, Ezra! I saw your horse, it wasn't even saddled. You had no intention of going anywhere." The healer shook his head. "I just don't get it. What in the devil were you thinking? They damned near killed you."

            "What's the matter, Mr. Jackson?" Ezra asked quietly. "Are you afraid the leopard might have changed his spots?"

            Nathan looked at him seriously. "It's not the change that bothers me. Like I said, it's the 'why' that's got me worried." He moved his good hand to the back of his neck and rubbed momentarily at the tension there.

            Ezra said nothing.

            Troubled by the Southerner's silence, Nathan walked to the window and looked out upon the busy street. Ever since he had come to in the barn back at Randall's station and realized what Standish had done, his conscience had been nagging him. What Ezra had said was true. The gambler was generally considered to be a selfish man. Lord knew that Nathan had accused him of it often enough. The trouble was Nathan also knew that it wasn't entirely true. From time to time, the gambler's pecuniary habits were marked by fleeting instances of generosity. –It was never large or obvious, for such showy gestures and heavy investments were usually only reserved for occasions where great benefits might be reaped in the form of a con. But Nathan had noticed that it was the little things –a card trick, or a piece of candy purchased for a child, the offer to carry a heavy package for a lady, the way he sometimes overpaid his bill at Gloria Potter's store and left his credit lingering for months through the slow summer season—that showed the gambler's true nature. --Not to mention the fact that he was here at all. 

As Ezra was fond of pointing out, Four Corners was hardly a boom town. He could have made three times what he did here at the tables in Denver, San Francisco, Dodge City or Abilene. But like the rest of them, he stayed here and risked his neck for a dollar a day plus room and board, and –like the rest of them—he sure wasn't doing it for the money. For all that Standish's imperious habits and sly ways infuriated him, Nathan had to admit that the man wasn't all bad, and he was afraid that somewhere back on the trail between here and Eagle Bend, he might have pushed things too far.

            "Look," he said quietly, turning to face the Southerner, "We said some pretty ugly things to each other back there on the trail. I just …I just need to know if what you did back there was because of me, because of what I said."

            The gambler leveled his cool, jade green gaze upon Nathan for one long moment, all pretenses of indifference and deception leaving his features. "Yes," he said it last, "…and no."

            Ezra sighed and shut his eyes, not quite certain how to verbalize the explanation which Nathan seemed to require. It did indeed have much to do with their argument and the angry accusations they had flung at each other. In point of fact, it stretched even farther back to their first meeting when Larabee had recruited them to defend the Indian Village. There had been instant tension and distrust between them, from the moment Ezra had first laid eyes upon Nathan, and Nathan had first heard Ezra's deliberate, cultured southern drawl. They had not trusted each other then, let alone liked each other. Over the past two years, they had earned a good measure of both trust and friendship. However, there were still moments –like the unfortunate incident with the Chinese girl, or the scuffle in the saloon at Eagle Bend—when the bonds of that tenuous friendship were sorely tested.

            He knew what it was that caused those breaches in trust. It was that ugly insidious thing that lay between them. –The thing that neither one of them desired to name, let alone discuss. It was as superficial as the color of their skin and as complex as the issue that had sent a nation to war with itself. It was everything he'd been taught as a child that conflicted deeply with the things he had learned as a man. It was something he was not even sure he knew how to describe or explain. It just _was._ It was that, more than Nathan's words that had driven him to walk out of that darkened barn to face the mob of white robed riders that had surrounded him.

            When Josiah found something difficult to explain, he often put it into a parable. Ezra could think of no such third-hand story that would explain this, but was surprised to find his mouth opening, his voice speaking almost of its own accord as the story came from within him.

            "When I was a boy, Maude left me one summer with my Uncle Elijah on his tobacco farm near the Ashley River. He wasn't wealthy by any means, but he had enough put by to be considered respectable. I detested the place. We worked from sun-up to sun-down in the field, planting and cultivating, pulling weeds, black and white alike. The only thing that made the place bearable was Ben. He was about my age," Ezra recalled, "with a mind nearly as cunning as my own. We got along famously.

            "One day, near the end of the summer, I snuck out to play with Ben and found him crying down behind the drying sheds. It seemed my uncle had fallen into financial difficulty and had been forced to liquidate some of his property –Ben included," Ezra paused. "I hadn't realized until that moment, exactly what slavery was. Mother and I had traveled extensively, lived mostly out of boarding houses and hotels. I had never given much thought to the doormen or the chamber maids or any of the servants, really. It didn't matter where we went, North or South, we treated them all pretty much the same. I simply assumed they were all alike. I did not realize until that moment that it was actually possible to own another person."

            Ezra clenched his jaw at the old memory. He'd gotten a beating that day, too. "I was furious with my uncle," he said at last. "I called him several deplorable names. He promptly took me out to the woodshed to discuss the matter. When he was through, he sat me down and explained to me in detail all the reasons we must abide by the 'peculiar institution.' The next day he wired Maude and told her to come and get me."

            "She was not at all happy," Ezra said wryly. "I had disrupted her plans for a particularly lucrative business opportunity, but when she had calmed down some, I asked her about what my uncle had said."

            "What did she say?" Nathan asked, slowly moving back towards Ezra to take a seat in the rocking chair beside the bed. Maude was, in many ways, even more of an enigma than her son. She was shrewd, cunning, and an unvarnished opportunist. Yet there was a bit of kindness to her, an almost thoughtless affection that she was more than willing to dispense, provided it cost her nothing in commitment or responsibility. Like Ezra, she lived by her own moral code and felt free to amend it whenever she chose.

            In spite of this, however, Nathan could not help but remember her as the woman who had looked beyond the color of his skin to see his talent for healing. She had no qualms about raising the eyebrows of the good townspeople to offer him quarters for his clinic in her newly renovated hotel. Granted, after the damage the building had suffered from the riots which had broken out after the new Marshall had arrived and temporarily disbanded the seven, she had quickly sold the establishment and he had been forced to return to his quarters above the livery. But he would always remember her as the woman who had given him a chance. Therefore, he was genuinely curious as to the answer she had given her son upon the topic in question.

            "I believe she called Elijah a pretentious prig, and said that if he had had any real talent or skill, he would have gone into a respectable business instead of grubbing around in the dirt like some farmhand. –In short, she avoided it entirely." Ezra said with a small smile.

            "Several years later, shortly before the war, I returned to Charleston. I had had a run of good fortune at the gaming tables and was several hundred dollars to the good. I happened to be strolling through the marketplace one day while they were holding an auction. I was working my way through the crowds, when the auctioneer mentioned a name I recognized as they were bringing up the next lot of slaves to be sold. It was the name of my uncle's neighbor, the man he'd sold Ben to all those years ago. It seemed he had died, and they were liquidating his estate. I stood there and watched until they brought Ben up. He was grown then, as was I, but all I could see was that boy I had played with all those years ago."

            "You bid on him," Nathan said, keeping his tone carefully neutral in spite of the visceral anger he felt at the confession.

            "I bought him," Ezra corrected, "for the princely sum of four hundred dollars. Thank God Mother wasn't there. She would have had a seizure."

            He leaned forward, wincing at the pain his back caused him. "I am afraid the years had much changed him from the boy I remembered. His master had not been quite as even tempered as my uncle. He didn't remember me at first, and when he did, he barely acknowledged it. I asked him if he had any skills or trades. He was a fairly able blacksmith. I knew he would be able to make a living for himself in the Northern states, and I had it in mind to give him his freedom…"

            The Southerner's voice trailed off suddenly, an ominous silence following in its wake. Nathan felt the sudden sick tightening in the pit of his stomach as he studied the pale complexion of the man before him. He knew full well why Ezra had hesitated. For once, it was written all over his poker face. What had started out as an explanation had suddenly become a confession. There was sadness and pain in the jade green eyes, and guilt …too much guilt. But behind it all was fear. Fear, Nathan surmised, that whatever secret the gambler was about to reveal was something so terrible that he was afraid Nathan might not be able to forgive it. As the nausea churning in his gut slowly boiled into anger, Nathan realized that he feared that same thing.

            From the day he had first laid eyes on Ezra Standish, it had been far too easy for him to dislike the man. Even if one put aside the fact that Standish was a white man, and a Southerner, Ezra was the living incarnation of everything he had learned to hate. He was greedy, self-serving, arrogant and pretentious. He was a master of chicanery, a liar and a cheat. But for all of that, the gambler also possessed some small, redeeming qualities that weighed in his favor. Ezra Standish was a man who quite literally lived each day with his soul hanging in the balance. Judging by the trepidation in the gambler's eyes, Nathan determined that whatever he was about to say might ultimately tip the scales forever.

            "Ezra," he said slowly, his voice a hoarse, almost angry whisper. "What did you do?"

            The Southerner blinked. When his eyes fixed upon the healer again, they were once more the blank, expressionless orbs of the consummate card sharp. "What is the saying? That the road to hell is paved with good intentions?" He smiled ruefully. "I fear Mr. Jackson, that I paved my road."

            The silence fairly crackled between them. Nathan sat frozen in his chair looking for all the world like a carved ebony statue as he contemplated all the horrible things the man before him might have done. Ezra for his part eased himself back down onto the bed and sagged limply against the mattress, wondering how on earth he was ever going to find the words to explain the awful truth of his actions. 

            His voice, when he found it again, was tired and defeated. "You remember how it was right before the war," he said softly. "The South was rabid with politics and proclamations. It was a dangerous time for everyone. I could have freed him then and there, given him his manumission papers and sent him on his way, but I was afraid. Times being what they were, whites who freed their slaves were not looked kindly upon, and I could ill afford the criticism. Slave catchers were everywhere, looking to make a dollar, and most of them without scruples. Many a freedman was put in chains and resold on the auction block papers or no." Ezra smiled wanly, "Turning Ben loose, only to have him captured and resold would have been a dismal return on my investment. I decided to take him north. I thought that once we were in New York, or perhaps Boston, I could give him his papers and let him leave with no danger to either of us. Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple."

            It never was, Nathan thought, biting the inside of his cheek and tasting the silvery taint of blood as the Southerner's voice grew even more calm, more quite, and his words more simple. Whatever was coming, it was not the pleasant ending Ezra had originally intended.

            "I had spent nearly everything to buy Ben. I did not have the money to buy a train ticket for myself, let alone the two of us. It became quite clear that if I was going to carry through with this plan, I would need to raise the capital, and I was going to need a larger sum than I could make at an honest game. I told Ben of my intentions, but explained that if we were going to go North, I would need his help. I taught him about cards and poker hands. We agreed upon some subtle signals, then I cleaned him up and hired him out to work in some of the local saloons and card houses as a bouncer. The first week I nearly recouped my investment. Then we left town before anyone became too suspicious. We worked our way up the coast, from Charleston to Raleigh, to Richmond to Washington and on to Baltimore. We worked well together. Ben had a natural talent for reading the hands, and no one took much notice of him. When we reached Baltimore, I suggested he consider making it a permanent partnership. He declined, rather sharply. I'm afraid we did not end that particular conversation on the best of terms."

            "What happened?" The words fell softly in the lingering silence. Nathan really did not want to hear it, yet he needed to know. Ezra did not want to say it, yet he needed to tell.

            "I left, rather in a temper. Then I went down to the station and purchased two tickets. One to Boston, and one to New York. I made a brief stop to consult a barrister and drew up the papers of manumission. Then I returned to the boarding house where I'd taken rooms, planning to divide up the profits of our venture between us and offer Ben his choice of the tickets."

            The gambler frowned deeply, recalling the events that had followed. "It was late when I returned, but even in the darkness, I could see the room was a shambles. The trunks and the dresser had been emptied, the pillows slit open. I went to the other room and found Ben rifling through the wardrobe."

            Another silence, briefer this time as the green eyes darkened and hardened. "I must have startled him. He whirled and came at me with a knife. –My knife, one I had always kept in my boot for extra …security. We struggled. …I won."

            For a long moment, neither man spoke. Nathan could hear the faint chatter of the customers and the melodious patter of the piano. Ezra was staring blankly at the wall behind Nathan, his eyes fixed on a distant scene that only he could see.

            "The wound was mortal," Ezra said at last. "As he lay dying, I put the papers in his hand and I asked him why he had done it. I had been going to give him his freedom. I had told him that from the beginning, and it was what I had intended all along. I couldn't understand why he would risk it all for something so foolish, when we were so close.

            "--He just looked at me with complete and utter revulsion. I knew then that he conned me more completely than I ever had done to anyone else. He had never been grateful. He was only watching, waiting for the opportunity to take from me some of the things that had been taken from him. I doubt he even remembered the children we had been. He only saw the nephew of the man who had sold him away from his family. I tried to explain it to him. I put the money and the ticket in his hand. I told him that he needn't have gone to the trouble. I would have given him more. –I might have given him all of it.

            "He told me then that it did not matter," Ezra said softly. "He said that I did not understand …that I could never understand."

            "He was right," Nathan said.

            "Yes," Ezra agreed. "I suppose he was." The gambler glanced up to meet Nathan's gaze. "I saw them coming, you know. –When I rose to take the second watch and went up to the cabin for coffee. They were still a good distance off, but I could make out their robes in the moonlight. That's when I knew who they were, and what they were about."

            "We should have stood together," Nathan said. "If you'd let me help, there might have been a chance."

            "They would have killed both of us," Ezra said, his voice dismissive.

            "You don't know that," Nathan retorted.

            Ezra began to shrug, and immediately paled at the pain the thoughtless action had cost him. He inhaled sharply. "You asked me why I did it," he said at last, through clenched teeth.

            "Yes."

            "I wanted to prove Ben wrong. I wanted to prove you wrong. …I wanted to understand."

            Silence closed the distance between them. There was something surreal about the moment, Nathan thought. It was as if this place and time were sealed off completely from any other. The words they spoke here were to be revealed only in this moment, and never referred to again. This, he realized, was the singular opportunity to say the things –the dark and angry and hurtful things—that lay so long unspoken between them for fear of misunderstanding. Here in this moment, in this room, they could speak those long buried words, explain and analyze and discuss them rationally without fear of reprisal or repercussion. And when he left and closed the door behind him, they would never speak of these things again, but each would at last know the other's mind upon the matter.

            "You remind me of him sometimes," Nathan said at last.

            "Who?"

            "Mr.  Jackson, my old master."

            The gambler's face, often impassive, tightened for the briefest moment, his lips compressing into a thin line.

            "It's the little things, mostly," Nathan explained with a small shrug. "Some of your mannerisms, the way you carry yourself, that fine turn you put on the end of your phrases. It's in the way you can throw a punch and then brush off your sleeve and straighten your cuffs without so much as turning a hair. He was like that. –All smiles and manners and Southern gentility most of the time, but cross him and he'd strike like a snake. Before you knew what hit you, he'd be the gentleman again."

            "The Lord of the Manor," Ezra said dryly, recalling their argument on the trail from Eagle Bend.

            "Yeah," Nathan sighed, "…something like that."

            He rose and moved back towards the window, needing to put distance between himself and Ezra. "It's not that he was a bad man. –Not entirely, anyways. In fact, he was a good sight better than the man he bought me from. He taught me how to read and write and how to fight with a sword …risky things for him to do and me to learn." Nathan shook his head. "I suppose some folks might consider me lucky to have a master like Mr. Jackson, but they've got to understand, he never did it for me."

            "His eyesight started to go and he couldn't read the small print in the newspapers anymore, so he taught me how to read so I could read them to him. –Taught me how to write, too, so that I could help him answer some of his letters. He needed a fencing partner so he taught me how to use a sword. We used bare blades, he said so that I would be motivated to learn, and learn well enough to keep him in practice."

            Nathan paused, remembering the lean, elegant old man. It had been fifteen years, and he still could not quite untangle the twisted set of emotions he felt when he thought of him. "From time to time, he was even kind in his own thoughtless sort of way," the healer said softly. "Sometimes, I think that was the cruelest thing about him."

            "He didn't have any children. Those of us that worked for him around the house, he always said that we were like his children. He said that when he died, he'd see to it that we got our papers …that we would be free." The black man paused, his jaw tightening.

            "The night he died, I waited 'til the doctors left and the Missus went to bed. They'd dosed her good with laudanum, so I knew I wouldn't be bothered. I went to the study and went through his desk. There were no papers for us. There wasn't even a mention of it in his will. All of his property would pass to his nephew." Nathan smiled, his large, white, even teeth seeming unusually menacing in the ebony setting of his face. "I didn't care for the nephew much, so I sat at his desk, wrote out my own papers an' signed his signature to it. Then I took my things and followed the stars north."

            He drew a long, shaky breath and turned back to the window, looking dully at the busy street below. "You'll never know what it is, Ezra," he said hoarsely, "—to love a man and hate him, all at the same time …to respect him for what he taught you, and yet detest him because he stole your life from you while he did it."

            Ezra stared dismally at the floor boards, almost as if they would splinter and split to reveal the gaping emotional chasm that stretched between them.

            _Just what is it you find so abhorrent about me?_

            He vaguely remembered asking Nathan that question in the midst of their argument, just before they'd been ambushed. Now that he knew, he almost wished he didn't. He found entirely too much in common between himself and Nathan's description of his former master. Except for the brief and unintentional incidents with Ben and Li Pong, Ezra had never owned a slave, had never kept one. He had disagreed with the institution on both economic and moral principals, and it was a point of pride that he did not participate in it. He realized now that he had only been deceiving himself. He had not owned slaves, but he had protested it either. In fact, he had treated them very much as Mr. Jackson had, --with a thoughtless sort of kindness, much as one would a child. It was little wonder that there were times when Nathan had desired to throttle him. In retrospect, it was a wonder to him that they had managed to get on at all.

            "It is not an easy obstacle to overcome," Ezra said at last. "No matter what we might do or say, it will always be there." He sighed. "I doubt we will ever overcome it."

            Nathan sensed that the Southerner was not just talking about the void that lay between the two of them, but the world in general.

            "I'd like to think we can," Nathan said at last. "I'd like to think that maybe with enough prayer and understanding and people willing to stand up for what is right, that we all just might be able to treat each other with respect, like decent human beings." He frowned, "Probably won't happen in our lifetime, though. It's all too fresh and bitter for that, but someday…" he hesitated and looked directly at the Southerner. "Maybe someday a black man and a white man can be at peace with each other and leave the past behind."

            "A pleasant thought," the gambler agreed, "but not a practical one."

            "You don't think it's possible?"

            "Oh anything is possible, Mr. Jackson, but not necessarily probable." Ezra shot the healer a skeptical look. "Do you really want to know what I think?"  
            Nathan nodded.

            "I think that a hundred years from now there will still be men like the ones we faced the other night, spewing hatred and terror wherever they go. I think that if we are lucky, there will still be a few good people brave enough to take a stand against them, and I think," he continued quietly, "that even then, a white man will look at a black man and ask him 'why do you despise me?' and the black man will tell him 'you can never understand.'"  
            The healer considered this for a long moment. "That's a pretty bleak picture you paint, Ezra."

            The Southerner managed a small quarter of a smile. "I am, alas, an eternal pragmatist."

            "Well, I'm not." Nathan replied firmly. "The way I see it, the only way to change the future is to start here and now."

            Rising, he fixed the gambler with a look of grim resignation. "I was wrong about you, Ezra. You're not like him …you never were. I was just so angry that I couldn't see it at first. Later on …well, being wrong …it's just not the easiest thing to admit."

            The gambler snorted. "As an individual who often suffers such failings, I assure you Mr. Jackson, you need not apologize to me."

            "But I do, Ezra," Nathan insisted. "You're not always as wrong as you think you are. All those times I lost my cool with you? All those times I lectured you? You can make me pretty damned mad, Ezra, but it's because deep down I know you can do the right thing –that you want to do the right thing—but you think because everybody expects you not to that you have to go and live up to their expectations. And just when I think I've got you pegged, you manage to go and surprise me. –Like the other day, --and that just makes me mad all over again."

            The gambler arched one auburn brow. "Is this your attempt at a belated thank you?" 

            Nathan snorted. "Not hardly. Just because I said you aren't always wrong don't necessarily mean you were right. If you hadn't gone and stirred up that hornets nest in Eagle Bend, we would never have gotten into this fix –nor drug that poor old man at the station into it."

            Ezra's jaw tightened, irritation sparking in his pale green eyes. "Well, I am delighted to see that this enlightening and …excruciating discussion has proven so effective in clearing the air between us. You do have a way with apologies, Mr. Jackson. Now that we have clearly established that this latest fiasco is once again my fault, would you mind taking your leave? I'm feeling quite tired all of a sudden."

            Nathan clenched his teeth in exasperation, frustrated to suddenly find himself back at square one. Shaking his head he stared at the gambler in disbelief. "You really don't get it, do you?" he snapped. "You have absolutely no idea why I was so damned angry about what happened back in Eagle Bend!"

            The gambler sighed deeply, closing his eyes against the headache that was steadily building itself into a throbbing crescendo against his temples. "No, Mr. Jackson, I really don't know. Pray, do enlighten me," he said, opening his eyes once again and locking the healer in his blazing green glare.

            Nathan held the gambler's pale jade eyes for a long moment. "I told you I don't like people fighting my battles for me. I meant it. What you did back there in Eagle Bend, you spoke for me –like I couldn't have done it myself."

            "You could have, but you didn't."

            Nathan nodded. "That's right. I didn't. –Because I chose not to. Then you opened your mouth and took that choice away."

            A flicker of understanding and regret glimmered in the gambler's eyes as he finally grasped the other's point of view. Nathan relented somewhat, his voice softening as he continued.

            "Don't get me wrong, Ezra. You faced down an entire mob for me, and that ain't somethin' a man is ever likely to forget. –I just wish that when it happened, I'd been standin' beside you, not behind you."

            Slowly, deliberately, he put out his hand. Ezra accepted it, gazing down at his own smooth and pale fingers that were gripped tightly in the work roughened ebony palm. 

            "Next time," Nathan said quietly, "we stand together."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

            Nathan was looking better when they returned. He still moved a bit gingerly as he made his way down the open staircase to join them at Ezra's usual table, but as Vin kicked aside an empty chair in an invitation to join them, he noted that the healer was steadier on his feet.

            "How's Ezra?" Buck asked, waving for Inez to bring another beer.

            "Meaner than a badger with a busted paw," Nathan said, easing into the chair, "but he tames down some if you've got the fortitude to stand him for more than five minutes at a time."

            "It's no wonder Maude canceled her visit," JD observed. "Inez must have the patience of a saint."

            "Yeah, well she could be my angel of mercy any time," Buck mused dreamily.

            Nathan snorted, "She'd never do it for fear you'd linger and live."

            "I would think my charm would come as a welcome change after dealin' with Ezra."

            "Señor Standish may have the temper of a rattle snake, but at least he keeps his hands to himself," Inez commented as she placed the beer in front of Nathan.

            "Inez, I am wounded," Buck said, feigning hurt.

            "Sorry Señor, but I don't nurse pride," she rejoined saucily, then moved off quickly in a whirl of brightly colored skirts.

            "Ouch," Buck said, wincing with a low whistle of appreciation.

            Vin regarded him with amusement. "Buck, when are you going to give it up?"

            "When he's dead …maybe," Chris said, joining them at the table. He glanced from Buck to Vin, "Did you tell him what we found out at Eagle Bend?"

            Buck waved to Josiah who was leaning on the end of the bar. "We were waitin' on you."

The preacher finished his cup of coffee, folded the newspaper he had been reading under his arm, and wandered over to join them.

            Chris, Vin, Buck and JD quickly outlined their findings to Nathan and Josiah, beginning with their interview of the bartender and hostler, and ending with the old woman and their visit to the burnt out ranch. Nathan was silent for a long moment. "I figured as much," he said at last. "Ezra saw 'em ridin' down onto the station. That was why he slipped the laudanum in my coffee and hid me in the manger. He knew what they were about, and what they'd do if they found me."

            "Who are they?" JD asked.

            Buck sighed heavily. "That's the hell of it, Kid. Nobody knows."

            Nathan absently contemplated the amber liquid in his mug, his taste for it completely gone. "Back in Missouri, they liked to call themselves the Knights of the White Camellia," he said at last. "Other places, they were called the Ku Klux Klan, but most folks around those parts just called them the Brotherhood. Nobody really knew who they were. They passed themselves as a secret society, but they ain't nowhere near that fine and noble. They really only have one purpose and that's to terrorize those folk who don't subscribe to their own twisted version of the Old South –slavery and all."

            "How come nobody's ever heard about them?" JD asked, amazed that such a movement could remain unnoticed.

            "They take pains to keep it that way," Nathan replied. "Rumor has it that most of the members don't even know for sure who the others are. It's absolute secrecy –part of the reason for the robes. An' folks in the South ain't too eager to talk about it. Some of 'em because they're a part of it, some because they're not proud of it, and most of 'em because they're just plain afraid, but everyone knows about them. –Even Ezra spotted them before I did."

            "I have heard of such things," Josiah said at last, "but it was my understanding that they stayed mostly in the Old South."

            "They've been making their way west," Nathan said darkly. "They was the ones behind the burning of the settlement back in Missouri. It only stands to reason that they should keep on comin'."

            "And now they're coming here," Vin said, slouching back in his chair and exchanging a glance with Chris.

            "I wired Judge Travis," Larabee said, returning the tracker's look. "There've been at least three other homesteads burnt between here and Watsonville. All of them belonged to freed slaves."  
            Nathan stiffened. "The Village," he said abruptly, thinking of the Seminole and the former slaves they sheltered. "Someone's got to warn them. They could be a target."

            Larabee shook his head. "They're pretty remote, and they've kept to themselves for the most part. It's pretty unlikely these guys will know about them."

            "Still, it might not hurt to let them know," Vin put in.

            Nathan nodded, "I'll leave tonight."

            "No." Larabee's voice brooked no argument. "You're still mending. And right now, you're a target. You could lead them right to the others." His gaze moved around the table, landing on the preacher. "Josiah will go, if it comes to that."

            "I can't just sit here and do nothing!" Nathan protested.

            "You won't be," Chris declared, thinking of the Judge's terse, telegraphed reply lying heavily in his own pocket. Orrin Travis's orders had not been explicit, but their intent was clear. "The Judge wants us to look into this, but he doesn't want us stirrin' up the pot any more than it already is. Folks are already edgy about the attack on the stage station. There's no sense gettin' 'em more excited, it'll just make our job that much harder. We need to keep a lid on things while we're looking into this."

            "I doubt that's an option," Josiah said, tossing his copy of the Clarion down on the table, "considering that Mrs. Travis just used it to fill her front page."

            JD flipped open the folded paper to reveal the bold headline that leapt off the page:

ATTACK ON STAGE STATION!

MYSTERY MARAUDERS LEAVE 

2 INJURED, 1 DEAD

**__________**

POSSIBLE LINK TO ATTACKS

 ON BLACK SETTLERS?

            Larabee swore and snatched up the paper, quickly scanning the lengthy article that detailed not only the attack upon Randall's station but the other attacks upon the black settlers that the judge had mentioned. It proceeded with an orderly listing of the parallels between the incidents and a heavy suggestion that they were likely the work of the same men. She had closed with a vehement call from the editor's desk for a wave of public outcry denouncing such actions and a plea for the good citizens of the town to stand up to those hidden men who would support such evil. In short, it was just what he'd come to expect of Mary Travis: timely, insightful, impassioned and just a little too damned smart for her own good. He wondered why in the hell they had just spent most of the past two days riding around between here and Eagle Bend. They could have just sat down with a copy of the Clarion and learned about as much. –Except that unlike her, they had a name to go with the faceless riders …Hans Detweiler.

            Folding the paper back up, he slapped it back down onto the table with a little more force than was necessary and drew a breath through gritted teeth as he forced himself back into a rational train of thought. "I'll deal with Mrs. Travis," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, even though the others were not quite sure they liked it. "In the mean time, get some dinner and some sleep. We'll ride out in the morning and look into the rest of the places that were attacked. Talk with neighbors. See if anybody knows anything.

            "I want these guys," he said, his features hardening as he glanced meaningfully at the five men before him. "They're not going to set up shop in our town."

***

            Mary Travis turned up the burner of the lamp suspended over the press and then moved to the tall windows that faced out onto the side street and opened each one several inches, allowing the crisp, faintly damp air of the chilly spring evening to enter the shop. She cast a thoughtful look between the front and back doors, and then shoved each of them ajar as well. It was past time to clean the press, and she was always mindful of the need to keep the room well ventilated when she did so. Stephen had cautioned her often enough of the dangers of turpentine fumes and open flames. 

When her husband had been alive, he had always cleaned the press in the daylight while she and Billy had torn down the chases for each page and sorted the type back into the proper drawers. But Stephen was dead now, and Billy had gone to live with his grandparents, and she was only one woman. There was simply not enough sunlight in her days to do things the way Stephen had once insisted was proper. So she turned the lamps higher, opened the windows wide and gritted her teeth to keep from shivering as she reached for the rags and turpentine stored beneath the counter.

With strong, determined fingers, she removed the rollers from the press and dropped them into the bucket to soak while she wiped down the ink plate and the platen. With the same small brush that she used to clean the ink from the grooves of the type and print blocks, she scrubbed at the smallest working parts of the press. Then, removing the rollers from the bucket, she wiped them down carefully and placed them back in their wooden storage rack behind the press. By now, the chill night air had thoroughly permeated the room and her fingers were practically numb from the cold, oily turpentine as she wiped her hands as best she could and stowed the rags and the pail back under the counter where she kept them. As she moved about the shop, picking up her tools and putting away the galley trays and the jobs waiting to be printed, she set her mind to planning the next day's tasks. Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to start tearing down the pages. –Not a job she ever looked forward to, and one made more difficult by the fact that this morning's stage had just taken Billy back to stay with Orrin and Evie now that his brief break from school was over. If there was one thing she missed about Billy that nothing to do with a mother's natural love for her son, it was the fact that he had made an excellent printer's devil. His young eyesight was keener than her own and his small fingers had a far easier time in separating and sorting the tiny pieces of lead type than she. It had been no small point of pride with him that he could tear down and sort a chase full of lead back into its proper drawers in half the time of his mother.

As always, thoughts of Billy were soon followed by melancholy longing and, eventually, anger at the harsh realities of life that seemed to somehow always keep them apart. If it wasn't murdering land speculators or rowdy cowhands shooting up the town, then it was soiled doves, or claim jumpers or renegade assassins or white robed riders burning homesteads and terrorizing folks in the night. There were days when she honestly wondered what she and Stephen had been thinking, coming to this place. They had been so full of hopes and dreams and making this little corner of the world a better place. But the harsh reality of the matter was that they had spent seven years of blood, sweat and tears –and ultimately, Stephen's life in this place and they had changed nothing. Four Corners still was not a safe place to raise a child. It probably never would be. 

Even still, she knew she was not going to give up. It was not her way. It hadn't been Stephen's, either. She was going to take the tools and the talents God had given her and keep fighting –even if the only weapons she had were a slightly worn old printing press, a stack of paper, some ink and the truth. Stephen had often said that most men feared the truth more than God. He had been right about that. His murder had proven it.

Moving to her desk to turn down the lamp that burnt there, her eye fell upon her own handwritten copy of the leading story from the latest edition. She was quite proud of that little bit of handiwork. Between her interviews with Nathan and the representatives of the stage company (the stage line had been distressingly more forthcoming than the only conscious principle witness) a small leap of intuition and a bit of investigative inquiry into the attacks in the outlying towns, she believed she had unearthed just enough truth to throw a little fear into these men that seemed bent on making fear their business. She had little doubt that this particular story would be the talk of the territory before the week was out. –Which was just what she had intended. Someone needed to rally the people against this latest outrage --and frankly, the Clarion needed the readership.

She was in the act of putting out the hurricane lamps that still burnt in their brackets along the walls when a familiar tread and jingle of spurs echoed down the length of the boardwalk and slowed …just beside her door. She could tell by the pace –rapid and determined—that he was angry. And without looking over her shoulder, she knew exactly who it was by the tense electrical charge that seemed to roll off of him as he shoved open the door and entered her building. However, the hard lessons of experience had taught her that it was always wise to check her assumptions, and as the footsteps traveled quickly across the floor of her office in the front and paused at the open doorway of the press room, she spared a quick glance in the lamp's mercury reflector and restrained a heavy sigh. Obviously, a long day was about to become longer.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Larabee?"

As she turned, she caught the swift look of surprise that traveled across his features. She felt a small moment of satisfaction at catching him off-guard with her intuitive greeting when he was so obviously --as Buck would put it-- "loaded for bear." Then she saw that his gaze was not fixed upon her, but rather the doors and windows, still flung wide to let in chilly night air and blow away the turpentine vapors. A frown darkened his features.

"It's freezing in here," he snapped. He tossed an irritated glance towards her insufficient calico blouse and apron and crossed to the nearest side window, closing it with a savage yank upon the lower sash. "What are you trying to do? Catch your death of cold?"

"I was cleaning the press," she said primly, shutting the back door. She strode over to the next window and closed it, then rose upon her tip toes, and gently blew out the last of the hurricane lamps upon the wall. The room was instantly cast in darkness, save for the solitary lamp that still burnt upon her desk. "I had to open the windows. Turpentine fumes and open flame tend to make for an explosive situation."

Larabee tilted his head to look at her, the sparks of the lamplight burning dangerously in his eyes. "So do lady newspaper editors who are too smart for their own good."

_Well, if that's the way he's going to be…_ She stiffened at the accusation, drawing herself up ramrod straight, her gray eyes chilling to shards of ice. "Just what are you insinuating, Mr. Larabee?" 

"I'm not insinuating anything, Mrs. Travis," he growled, shoving his way past the low swinging door and further into her personal domain. "I'm flat out telling you. –Running that story was a bad idea."

She was not afraid of him. She never had been –not even on that day when he'd first come storming into her office, raging about the article she had written about him. That, of course, had been back before she'd gotten to know the man behind the deadly reputation. –Not to say the reputation wasn't deserved. Chris Larabee was a dangerous man –quite possibly the most dangerous man she had ever met—but she had always known on some level that he was not a threat to her or any other decent person. It was the indecent ones who had to worry. Still, she had to remind herself of this as she suddenly found herself pinned by the blazing intensity of his gaze.

"Really," she said smoothly, folding her arms across her breast. "I had no idea you counted literary acumen among your talents." She allowed her eyes to stray from his face to the gun at his hip and back, in a clear implication that –at least in her estimation—his talents were far more limited.

The green eyes narrowed and he advanced upon her, with feral, predatory movements. Involuntarily, she took a step back and felt the soft crunch of fabric and coiled springs against her thighs as her bustle pressed into the marble topped composition table behind her. In a belated attempt to maintain her projection of calm indifference, she unfolded her arms and dropped her hands to the smooth, ink-stained oak frame of the table's edge, allowing her fingers to curl about it only a little.

            A small smile played at the corner of his mouth as he noted her momentary discomposure, but it lacked the usual warmth or gentleness of other smiles he had offered her. He stopped just at the threshold of propriety, his presence not invading but still pressing upon her personal space. As always, his words were softly spoken, but charged with that icy intensity of barely repressed anger.

            "It doesn't take a genius to see that that article of yours is going to stir up a whole lot of trouble in this town. Bad enough you had to write all the details of the attack on Nathan and Ezra and draw conclusions about the raids on the black homesteaders, but you had to get up on your soap box about it to boot!"

            "Bad enough?" she echoed, her voice rising with disbelief. "Forgive me Mr. Larabee, but the last time I looked at the sign over my front door, it said 'Newspaper.' That means I print the news, and like it or not, what happened out at Randall's station is news. It's my job –no, it's my _duty-- to tell people about what's happening in their own community!"_

            Chris snorted. "Oh, you told them, all right! You told the men who did this that in spite of making a damned good attempt, they didn't manage to kill Ezra and Nathan and that old woman. --You told them that we know they're connected to the attacks on the black settlers and we'll be looking for them now."

            He drew a sharp breath and shook his head, biting back a curse. "Do you know we rode over half the damned country between here and Eagle Bend today and didn't find so much as a hair of these guys? They're like ghosts. Nobody knows who in the hell they are. –And if you think they're hard to find now, just wait until that article of yours makes its way around the countryside! --By the end of the week they'll be damned near impossible to track!"

            _Well, that explains the burr under his blanket. He's frustrated because he can't find the men who did this. She could sympathize with that, she supposed, but she would be hanged if she was going to let him take it out on her._

            "Well, I'm sorry if it's made your job a little more difficult, but somebody needs to warn people about these men."

            _"Difficult?" His voice rose slightly and he shook his head in amazement. "Lady, you've got no idea! But while you're worried about warnin' people, why don't you warn Mrs. Lincoln that the men who killed her husband beat her half to death know she survived and might be back to finish the job? –Why don't you warn Nathan and Ezra that from here on out they might want be careful about stickin' their heads out of doors, because if any of the men who attacked them read your paper, they'll know who they are and where they're at? …For that matter, why don't you just go ahead and warn the whole town to sleep lightly for a while in case these guys do decide to pay a visit here!"_

            "—Really, Mr. Larabee, …I don't think…"

            "That's the whole damned problem, Mary!" he snapped, "You _don't think! You crank out those articles like they came from the mouth of God and think that just because you're a woman, you'll be safe? --You don't think the men behind this might take exception to your little tirade?"_

            Furious, she lunged up from the table, putting herself nose to nose with him. "Whether or not everyone agrees with what I print is irrelevant," she hissed. "As editor of this newspaper, it's my job to print the truth about what happens in this community, and it's _my right_ to say what I think about it! –And don't you _dare_ lecture me about the risks of that, Chris Larabee! I know better than anyone the cost of standing up for what you believe in! –But I'll be _damned_ if I will let fear keep me from voicing the opinions of decent people!"

            "It appears to me," he snarled, "that you're workin' with a whole lot of opinions and damned little truth! We don't know a thing about these men for certain, and you're ready to set fire to this territory and the whole town with it. What gives you the right to do that?" he demanded. "--What gives you the right to print any damned thing you want?"

            "The First Amendment!" she snapped, bracing her hands on her hips. "But as long as your so free with your own opinions, Mr. Larabee, would you mind telling me _what in the hell _gives you the right to come in here and presume to tell me what I can and can't do?"

            The words caught him squarely in the chest and knocked the breath from his lungs. In another time, with another woman, he would have had an answer to that question; --even if it was only to grab her and kiss her senseless until they both forgot what the question had been. But that time and woman were gone and tempting though it was, kissing her was clearly not an option. Instead, he found himself staring at her without the foggiest idea of what in the hell to say.

            He knew what he wanted to say to her. He knew full well what the answer to her question was. …Nothing. _–_There was nothing that gave him that right. –Nothing, except for the fact that she made him crazy. …Nothing, except that the fear of something happening to her scared the hell out of him… But of course none of these were things he could say to Mary Travis, and so he said…

 …nothing.

            Instead, he took a step back, conceding her victory with a brief nod then turned on his heel and moved swiftly towards the door. He paused at the threshold, then turned back towards her, raising his head and piercing her with the full weight of his gaze. The green eyes, the chiseled features, revealed nothing of his thoughts.

            He opened his mouth as if to speak, then quickly closed it and turned and walked away, pulling the door sharply closed behind him.

            Mary expelled a shaky breath, still tense and wired from the confrontation. He was without a doubt the most infuriating man she'd ever met. There were times when he made her so mad, she honestly didn't know whether to slap him or…she turned her mind quickly from the wayward thoughts.

            At least tonight she had gotten the best of him.  The verbal victory should have left her with an immense feeling of satisfaction, but it didn't. Instead, she could only recall the stunned expression on his face as she'd dealt him that last verbal blow. The way his eyes had raked over her from head to toe as if there were a thousand things he wanted to say –or do. But he hadn't. He had simply turned on his heel and left.

            She should been happy. She should have felt vindicated. Instead, she could only think of the turbulent emotions that had leapt in his eyes as he'd silently regarded her and wished he'd said…

 …something.

***

_The Grand Hotel_

_Eagle __Bend_

            The gentleman in room number seven came down to the lounge and precisely half past five. He ordered a cognac to go with his cigar and selected a large, overstuffed leather chair near the fire from which he could gaze out the tall, narrow windows to the clatter of wagons and buggies that traveled the length of the town's single street. A lean middle aged man, attired in shirtsleeves and a somewhat shabby waistcoat from which a rather plain gold pocket watch was strung, appeared at his elbow. The man from room number seven drew deeply on his cigar and looked up at the man whom he vaguely identified as the hotel's desk clerk, waiter and bellhop.

            "Can I interest you in a paper, sir?"

            The gentleman reveled in another deep draught of tobacco smoke, and then pulled the cigar from his mouth to speak. "I don't know. What have you got?"

            The desk clerk/waiter/bellhop fanned several well-worn newspapers out onto a small side table before him.

            "Two copies of the Albuquerque Express, --one from last winter and the other is six weeks old. There's also copy of the Denver Telegraph from February, and current editions of the Ridge City Courier, the Watsonville Record and The Four Corner's Clarion. –The Clarion just arrived today on the afternoon stage."

            The gentleman from room number seven was unimpressed. He had been in both Denver and Albuquerque far more recently than either of the editions from those respective cities, and in his experience, small town papers carried little of interest save a tedious listing of births and deaths, illnesses, crimes and misdemeanors of the local denizens. He was about to decline out of hand, when the bold lettering of the last paper caught his eye. He picked it up off the side table, noting that the pages were crisp, not tattered, and that the pages still smelled strongly of freshly printed ink. He glanced at the masthead. It was the Four Corners Clarion.

            Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a coin and pressed it into the bellman's hand.

            "This one will do, thank you." He said dismissively. Placing the cigar in an ashtray on the table near his elbow, he began to read the leading article. The cigar smoldered on it's own for several long minutes. Then, neglected by its owner, it finally went out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

            Normally, Vin Tanner would not have minded overly much about the cold patter of raindrops that rattled against the brim of his hat and slid over the edge and down the back of his neck in a steady stream. Water was a precious commodity in this country, and as such a body was hard pressed to complain when Mother Nature chose to open up the skies and give him a free bath. On the other hand, he'd been riding in the steady, endless drizzle since dawn and considering that he was soaked to the skin, he guessed he had received more than was his due in the bath department. Beside him, Larabee ducked his head and spoke a quiet word of encouragement to the black stallion as the horse scrambled for footing on the muddy path. Near as he could figure, it was the first word out of Chris's mouth since they had left the burnt out shell of the last homestead, nearly three hours past.

            He couldn't say as he was surprised. There was something about the vicious destruction, the charred buildings, the stench of death, the sight of so many shattered dreams that put all thoughts of small talk out of a man's mind. Still, between the dismal weather and the even drearier mood, the usually comfortable silence had somehow become overpowering. He was frankly relieved when at last Peso raised his head, scented the air and called out with a shrill whinny of greeting. Following the general direction of the gelding's interested ears, Vin at last made out the distant but familiar coats of the gray mare and the sorrel gelding as they topped the rise of the path leading from Eagle Bend to Four Corners.

            Mindful of the soggy ground, he checked the urge to spur his mount to a swift lope, and instead urged the lean, leggy gelding into a ground-eating trot. Larabee did the same, albeit at a slightly slower pace, as Job's sturdier build and slightly shorter legs could not quite compete with Peso. From across the distance, the gray mare returned the whinny and both she and the sorrel moved out eagerly, bringing all four riders to a rendezvous at the old cottonwood near the edge of town.

            Buck checked the mare in the nominal shelter of the cottonwood and leaned heavily over his saddle horn as he awaited their approach. He looked more than a little ridiculous in the long rubber rain slicker that he wore over his clothing, but Vin allowed that he was probably the driest of any of them. The fringed buckskin jacket was so waterlogged that it lay heavily over his own shoulders, and Chris's black canvas duster had soaked through hours ago. Josiah's tightly woven woolen poncho had become so sodden that a steady stream fairly poured from the fringed corners, but the preacher bore it all with such a stoic expression that Vin suspected he must be practicing one of his "Hoodoo" meditations that he'd learned in the orient or wherever it was he'd wandered to in his mysterious misspent youth.

            "What did you find out?" Chris asked, reining up beside Vin. When they had left in the morning they had agreed to split up in order to cover all of the attacked homesteads more quickly before the rain washed away whatever evidence might be left to spot. But judging from the grim looks on the faces of Wilmington and Sanchez, Vin guessed that he already knew the answer to that question.

            The big man shook his head; water flying off the brim of his hat like it would from a wet dog. "Not a damned thing," he muttered. "Rain's washed most of the tracks away, and folks we could find weren't over anxious to talk. Nobody ever heard of this Detweiler fella, either."

            "Or if they had, they were too afraid to admit it," Josiah put in.

            "What about you?" Buck asked, "Any luck?"

            Vin shook his head. "More of the same," he said tiredly. To say that neighbors of the attacked homesteaders had been closed mouthed would have been an understatement, and even his practiced eye could make nothing of the tracks that had rapidly dissolved beneath the relentless touch of the spring rain.

            "Well, hell," Buck muttered slipping a hand beneath the gray's mane to warm it against the heat of her neck. "Now what do we do?"

            The rain whispered down around them for a long moment.

            "We wait," Larabee said at last, and turned the black stallion once more down the trail that led to town.

            "I don't know about you," Buck said as he pushed his mare to keep up with Tanner, "but I believe I'll do my waitin' in the saloon. There's a fire, a drink and a lady waiting there with my name on 'em."

            "A fire and a drink, anyway," Josiah allowed as he brought up the rear. "I do believe the lady has other ideas."

            "Aw, now she just ain't had enough of my charms yet," Buck replied, flashing this famous lady-killing smile. "She just needs a little more time is all."

            Tanner ducked his head in amusement. Chris was right; Buck was never going to give up –even when the case was so obviously hopeless. "I don't think time is the problem, Bucklin," he said mildly as he pressed his heel into Peso's flank. "Likely it's the charm that's the trouble."

            The lean black gelding lengthened his trot and Wilmington's protests erupted into a volley of good natured curses as muddy water splashed up from Peso's hooves, liberally splattering the gray and its rider. Tanner's grin broadened. 

Buck uttered a soft "Git on, Nell," urging the mare once more into place beside Peso. A moment later Josiah followed suit and soon they were riding three abreast and slowly closing in upon the solitary black figure of the horse and rider in front of them.

            "He's lookin' mighty grim," Buck said at last, half under his breath.

            "It's a grim business," Josiah reminded him, his voice equally soft so as not to be heard far above the steady cadence of the rain.

            "Yeah, well, I've seen that look before," Buck intoned softly, "an' it don't bode well." He traded meaningful looks with the men to his left. "You ask me, somethin' needs to happen soon. –Otherwise, I'd say he's about three steps away from ridin' off to Purgatorio an' stickin' his head in a bottle for a spell."

            Vin considered this. "Might not be a bad thing," he said at last. "Man needs to let off some steam and clear his head from time to time."

            Buck shot him a sidewise look. "Mebbe, but he ain't gettin' no younger, neither. One of these days some gun slick kid's gonna come along an' clear that thick skull for him if he ain't careful." Wilmington shook his head again, sending large drops of water rolling off the brim of his hat and down the back of his neck. "Goddamn fool," he muttered softly.

            Wilmington's fear, though quietly spoken, was obviously an old one and it gave Vin pause. Riding a moment in silence, he studied the lean, grim figure of the man in black who led them. Just how old was Larabee anyway? He'd never really thought of it before. It had somehow never seemed important. –Older than himself, he judged, and certainly younger than Josiah. Probably within a year or two of Buck, he decided, but shooting a quick glance to the big man at his left was of little use, for Buck seemed ageless. Some days he was as fun-loving and youthful as JD. But there were other times –like now—when the weight of the years showed heavily in his eyes. In a country like this, experience and wisdom often beat out strength and youth when it came to survival, but Buck was right. Sooner or later there would come a day when experience wasn't enough …and youth would get lucky.

            "Well," Vin said quietly as they closed upon Larabee's flank, "then I reckon we'd best hope somethin' happens soon."

            Even with the acrid smoke dropping low from the chimneys to curl through the streets and the wet horses standing dejectedly at hitching posts or slogging their way through the knee deep mud, the sight of town was a welcome one. The sharp scent of the wood and coal fires reminded each of the men that somewhere, just beneath those dripping roofs was a change of dry clothes and a fire to warm themselves by. The bustle of the townsfolk, going on about their business with rugged determination was an almost cheering sight after the solitary, too silent company which they had ridden in for most of the day.

            Buck scanned the length of the street, his eyes seeking JD, and found him at last beneath the corrugated tin overhang in front of the Sheriff's office, engaged in a game of checkers with Nathan. Well, at least he was over his pout, Wilmington thought. Buck could tell the kid had been out of sorts with Larabee's decision to take Josiah on this morning's scouting party instead, but the preacher's gentle way with people had proven useful with the people they were questioning, and somebody had to stay behind and keep an eye on things with Nathan and Ezra laid up. All chances of argument were quickly snuffed by Larabee's pointed glance to the badge pinned on JD's vest.

_            "You were the one that took the star, I guess that means you."_

            As they moved on down the street in the direction of the livery, the door of the millinery opened suddenly and a startling vision in blue stepped out onto the boardwalk. Buck, ever mindful of female fashion and the benefits reaped from complimenting upon it, checked the gray and tipped his hat, flashing a reverent but beaming smile as he did so.

            "Afternoon, Misssus Travis. Might I say you do look fetching in that dress?"

            Mary Travis, fresh from a fitting and sporting her latest purchase, a new deep blue poplin gown that she had opted to wear home rather than endure further struggle with buttons and hooks and bustles and stays, looked up with a start. A pink tint colored her cheeks as she recognized the speaker and those who accompanied him.

            "Why thank you, Mr. Wilmington, --you may." She replied and hesitated as she took in their bedraggled state. "I wish I could return the compliment," she said at last, "but you gentlemen look as if you could do with a cup of hot coffee and some drying out."

            "Ma'am, I wouldn't disagree with you on that," Josiah said ruefully.

            Mary smiled. "In that case, I won't keep you from it any longer." She nodded at each of them in dismissal, "Mr. Sanchez, Mr. Tanner, Mr. Wilmington…" Her eyes traveled to Chris, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned crisply on her heel and walked back down the boardwalk towards the Clarion. 

            In the midst of the noisy bustle of town, the silence had suddenly become deafening. Buck looked from the rapidly retreating form of the newspaperwoman to the glowering man beside him. The door to the newspaper closed with an audible thud, and Buck shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated shiver.

            "I do believe I feel a sudden chill," he declared, and turned in his saddle to fix Chris with an inquisitive look. "Just what in tarnation did you say to her to get her all het up like that, anyhow?"

            His question was met with cold silence, and Buck's amusement grew. It hadn't escaped his attention as of late that Chris and the widow Travis had been striking more sparks off of each other than a piece of flint and steel, and he couldn't resist needling his friend.

            "Gotta hand it to you, stud. You shore do have a way with the ladies. Just about the time you git her warmed up to you, ya gotta take a stick an' give the bees in her bonnet a good poke. –Shoot, I ain't seen you make a woman blow that hot and cold since—"

            He broke off abruptly as he realized too late what he had been about to say. Larabee's silence had dropped from cold to deadly. Buck, belatedly aware of his overstep, pulled up the gray. Larabee continued wordlessly down the street.

            Vin, sensing the man's need for space, reined Peso in to stop beside Buck.

            "Since when?" The tracker asked quietly, his eyes following the solitary progress of the man on the black horse.

            Buck sighed heavily, an exhalation of guilt and regret. 

"--Since Sarah," he muttered, and turned the gray sharply in the direction of the saloon.

***

_The Grand Hotel_

_Eagle __Bend___

            "I would like to say that you have done well, gentlemen," the tall, genteel-looking man in the silk broadcloth suit announced from behind a plume of particularly fine cigar smoke, "but under the circumstances, I am afraid it would not be an accurate assessment of the situation." 

            Leon McAllister tapped the cigar into an ashtray and surveyed the four uncurried individuals who inhabited the chairs of his suite. Under the circumstances, it was a great stretch of the imagination to refer to them as gentlemen, yet necessity required that he employ the term. The movement was still in its fledgling stages in these western lands, and it would require every bit of leadership skill he possessed to raise these men from their uncouth habits and mould them into the powerful political and tactical force he required.

            Hans Detweiler shifted uneasily in his chair. The son of a German miller, Detweiler had traded life in his father's cotton mills for work as an overseer on a plantation in McAllister's native New Orleans prior to the war. When the War Between the States had broken out, he had enlisted, along with 500 other men in the company of volunteers that McAllister had formed to defend the southern cause. Many of those loyal followers had died in the war, some had returned home, still others worked to further the efforts of the cause in the trail of states that McAllister had left behind him, but Detweiler alone remained. He was McAllister's strongest supporter and right hand in this particular enterprise, the only man he could entrust to carry out his orders, but McAllister wasn't particularly happy with his lieutenant at this moment in time. He eyed Detweiler with a cold eyed stare.

            "Up until now, all of your engagements have met with great success. You have gained many new recruits along the way. Under other circumstances, I would like to commend you." Rising from his chair, McAllister crossed to the library table and sorted through the stack of papers scattered across its top.

            "However," he continued, picking out at last what appeared to be a copy of a local newspaper, "at the moment, what I would really like is an explanation." 

He rounded on Detweiler, flinging the paper into his lap. "How in the hell could you make a mistake like this?" he hissed. "I thought my instructions were explicit! How could you be fool enough to leave the old woman alive?"

            "We thought she was dead," one of the others, a man named Barkley, protested.

            "For the price of a bullet you could have made certain of that," McAllister said dryly. "Now the situation has become more complex." He drew deeply on the cigar, "we are under a deadline, gentlemen, and we need to procure that property."

            Detweiler seemed unconcerned. "We have it under control. 'Been keepin' an eye on the old woman, she should be up for company in a couple of days. We'll have someone stop in and make her an offer on the property –at a discounted rate, of course."

            "If you'd done the job properly, we wouldn't have to make her an offer at all," McAllister growled. "I do not need to remind you, gentlemen, how much is at stake. If we do not obtain this land and cement this deal, we will not have the capital necessary to launch our political agenda. We can ill afford any unexpected surprises at this stage of the game."

            "There won't be," Detweiler assured him.

            McAllister studied the man carefully, an uneasy feeling tickling at the back of his mind. Detweiler was the most intelligent of his men, and perhaps the most dangerous. He was a valued asset to the cause when he was brought completely to heel. Recent events, however, were starting to suggest that perhaps the leash needed to be shortened.

            "Really," McAllister drawled, and stabbed a finger at the Clarion's bold headline. "I do not recall harassment of a stage coach stop as being part of our strategy. Would you care to enlighten me as to the necessity of that operation, Mr. Detweiler?"

            Detweiler cleared his throat uneasily. "We were just makin' a point, Mr. McAllister," he said, and went on to explain about the confrontation they had had with the polished Southern gambler and his dark skinned companion in the saloon down the street. "We put a lot of talk and effort into gettin' folks to see our side o' things around here. –How would we have looked if we'd let a man get away with a thing like that all bold as brass –and a Southron' to boot?"

            McAllister allowed a moment of silence, taking care to consider his words before he uttered them. Unsanctioned actions posed not only a threat to his own control, but to the ultimate success of the movement. He must make Detweiler see the latter without realizing the former. Moving away from the table, McAllister stepped to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.

            "I admire your initiative, Hans," he said, carefully considering the amber liquid in his glass. His lean, elegant fingers held it up to the light, judging the color as he twirled it slightly. "However, I fear it may have been ill-considered at this particular moment. It seems the men you encountered have friends. Those friends are making inquiries…"

            He let the word hang for a moment, an indication of his displeasure as he gazed out the window into the rather dismal little street of Eagle Bend. They did not need unforeseen opposition at this moment in the game. He sincerely hoped that it would not interfere with the careful timetable of events which he had planned.

            "Naturally, I was forced to make some inquiries of my own. It seems these men are considered to be rather formidable individuals in these parts. They have some loose affiliation with the local law enforcement in this part of the territory. I understand that they have established some sort of foothold with the Territorial Judge. They have been asking questions through both official and unofficial channels as to the activities of our movement."

            "You want us to take care of them?" Detweiler asked.

            "No," McAllister replied shaking his head. "We cannot afford to waste our resources chasing down past mistakes. –We'll deal with them later on if need be."

            He drank the brandy and turned to consider the men. "We must stick to the plan as it has been outlined. Continue to clear the homesteads we have identified and then discreetly acquire them. Now that we have a man in the land office swayed to our way of thinking, it should be a simple matter. The timetable is set. We must have everything in place by the summer's end."

            He waved his hand, dismissing the others, but called Detweiler back as they were filing out of the room. "Hans," he said when they were finally alone, "About these men in Four Corners –they could be an issue that bears watching. Dispatch one of the men –someone they will not recognize—to monitor their activities." He leveled his cold gray gaze upon Detweiler's ruddy face. "I don't want any more surprises, understood?"

            Detweiler nodded, "Yes sir, Mr. McAllister."

            Detweiler turned to go, but was brought short once more by McAllister's cultured Southern drawl.

            "One more thing, Hans."

            "Sir?" Detweiler said, turning back.

            McAllister picked up the newspaper he had brandished earlier in the interview. "This newspaper editor…" he scanned the article searching for a name, "…Travis, has written a very unfavorable editorial upon our activities. Our movement is still in its fledgling stages. We can ill afford the tide of public opinion to turn against us so soon. I think perhaps it is time we responded with an editorial statement of our own."

***

            The rain had stopped an hour ago. Standing in the open doorway that looked out onto the muddy lot where four of the horses that Yosemite kept for sale or hire stood huddled against the damp, Chris contemplated a world that seemed as soggy as his spirits. He'd been angry when he had ridden in, and only the fact that both he and his horse were drenched to the skin and that Job's stride was far from eager had kept him from moving on.

He had stripped the black of his dripping gear with sharp, angry movements and had desperately wanted a drink as he'd fought to undo knots and buckles with fingers that shook from anger and cold. He still wanted one, but he knew better than to go after it. One drink would lead too easily to another and another, until the attempt to drown the memory of Sarah's body lying scorched among the embers of their home ultimately ended with him flat on his face the mud outside the saloon with half the damn town looking on. –Not that it would be the first time he had put on such a display, but that particular privilege was one he preferred to reserve for the less interested citizens of Purgatorio. Hell-hole that it was, it's greatest flaw was also its greatest asset: nobody gave a damn what you did there. –Nobody gave a damn, period.

Shivering with the cold he had retrieved a dry shirt and pants from his bedroll and ascended the ladder to the hayloft to change. He had been in no mood for company, and when he had heard Josiah and Vin enter a few minutes later to put up their own mounts as well as Buck's, he had opted to remain in the loft. Grabbing a horse blanket, he had burrowed into the hay with a vague thought to sleep and wake in a better frame of mind, but sleep had not come. Instead, he had lain awake, listening to the steady drum of the rain on the roof with his mind racing worrying at problems which he had no idea how to solve. He had risen when the rain had stopped, restless to do something –anything—and had ended up going back down the ladder to feed the horses and muck stalls for Yosemite. He knew better than to leave the barn just yet. The horses were a soothing influence and far less likely to piss him off than anyone he might encounter on the streets of town.

Turning back down the alley between the stalls, he reached out to stroke Job's muzzle and give the wispy black forelock a gentle tug. The stallion snorted and butted his head firmly into Larabee's chest. Chris smiled wryly as he patted the animal.

"Yeah, I can't fool you, can I old man?" Sparing a quick glance to make certain there was no one to see, he drew out his last remaining and slightly damp cheroot and sliced it in half with his pocket knife.  

The stallion swiveled its ears forward with undisguised interest, and Chris fixed the horse with a smile and a slightly raised eyebrow. "Now don't tell Peso," he softly admonished. "--He'll just tell Tanner and it'll only ruin the grief we been givin' him about all the licorice he's been sneakin' out to the barn."

He fed the bottom end to the stallion, and saved the other half for himself. Job ate the tobacco with relish and nudged him again, giving a heavy sigh when no more tobacco was forthcoming. Chris laughed softly and stroked the stallion behind the ears, his spirits somewhat lifted by the antics of the horse. Moving out through the front doors of the livery and into the street, he put the other half of the cheroot in his mouth. It took several tries to light it, but patience finally won out and the sharp, bitter flavor of the tobacco rolled across his tongue. He stood there for a long moment, his eyes sweeping up the length of the town, taking in the action of the busy street as he smoked the cheroot and sorted through his options.

He still didn't know what in the hell to do about the "Brotherhood" as Nathan called them. The men who had attacked Nathan and Ezra and the black homesteads had seemingly vanished without a trace. It would be a waste of energy to keep riding the country side searching for them. They were too well hidden, and anyone who did know anything about them was too afraid to say so. They could only wait for the next attack, and hope that they might get lucky.

On the other hand, he did know what to do about the situation with Mary Travis. Much as he dreaded the thought of it, he would have to go and make amends. She was one of the few people in this town that he and the other six could count among their supporters, and her stance certainly hadn't won her any popularity contests with the towns more "upstanding" citizens. In the two years that had passed since he had first ridden into this town, he'd come to like the place. –So had the others, but he wasn't so much of an idiot as not to realize that it was only the benevolence of Mary –and Judge Travis—that allowed them to remain.

He'd been a damned fool to lay into her last night like he had, and she had every right to be pissed with him, but there was just something about the woman that sometimes set his teeth on edge. He'd meant to be tactful, he'd meant to be diplomatic, but somehow when he walked through that door and found her scrubbing that damned press and shivering up a storm with every door and window thrown wide, his patience had snapped and his politeness had evaporated. –Damned stubborn woman, the least she could do was ask for help every once in a while. In retrospect, he knew he should have offered to help her, instead of standing there like a horse's ass and tearing into her like he'd done.

He still didn't know what had possessed him to do it. _–The hell you don't,_ he thought sourly, but did not care to examine the reason to closely just now. Buck's parting comment had struck a little too close to the truth for comfort, and he was not of a mind to deal with it just yet.

Swearing softly under his breath, he took a last puff of what was left of the cigarillo and tossed it out into the muddy street. There was no help for it, it was time to go and take his medicine.

The last of the sunlight was fading from the sky and the soft glow of lamp light burnt from the few storefronts that were still open as he made his way up the boardwalk towards the Clarion. A quick glance through the large front window assured him that she had not yet called it a day, and he found himself hesitating on the threshold as he took in the sight of her.

Buck had been right. In fact, he had understated the case. The blue dress was a striking color upon her, softening the gray of her eyes and turning her blonde hair to spun gold. As she sat there at her desk, pouring over her account book with a somber expression, he thought that she was too damned beautiful for words. She must have felt him watching her, for she looked up just then, her gaze squarely meeting his own and he felt a flush of embarrassment creep over him.

No sense in standing there like a damned fool, he reminded himself sharply and opened the door and stepped inside.

"Mr. Larabee," She said her voice and greeting as cool as her eyes. "Have you come to offer more editorial criticism?"

He closed the door behind him with a soft click. "No," he said, removing his hat and raking his fingers through his still damp hair, "I was actually hoping to make a trade."

"Oh?" Her voice, still cool and wary indicated that she'd rather do business with a pack of rattlesnakes. "And what kind of trade would that be?"

"--A cup of coffee…for an apology."

She seemed to consider this for a moment. "How good is the apology?" she asked at last, leaning back in her chair.

He flashed a smile that was brilliant enough to light the entire room. "Depends on the coffee, I guess."

She sighed and waved a hand towards the potbellied stove near the front of the room where a chipped gray enamel coffee pot steamed. "If that's the case, I'm afraid it's hardly worth the effort, but by all means, go ahead. --I don't believe I've ever heard Chris Larabee apologize for anything before."

"Well," Chris said crossing to the stove and collecting the coffee pot and a mug from a shelf on the wall. "I reckon it will be a new experience for both of us."

***

            The dark clouds, promising more rain but withholding it for the moment, moved slowly across the night sky obscuring the stars and the faint glow of the pale silver moon that threatened to break through in spots. The trail was as black as India ink and only the occasional click of a stone or the soft sucking sound of the mud beneath the horses' hooves alerted each rider to the presence of another as they coaxed their mounts down the muddy path towards the small colony of lights that burnt in the distance.

            A half mile from the edge of town, beneath the wide spreading branches of the old cottonwood, the leader halted his rangy roan gelding and turned to the men that followed him. 

"Now," he said quietly, and began fumbling behind his saddle for the bundle he had secured there.

There was no sound save for the soft rustle of fabric and creaking saddle leather as each of the men readied themselves for the task at hand. When all were ready, the leader extracted the heavy length of stick that had been strapped to his pommel and held it out to the man beside him. There was a sharp, rasping sound as the man struck flint to steel and a small spark dropped onto the kerosene soaked cloth that was wrapped tightly around the end of the torch. There was a soft whoosh of air as the cloth ignited and the flame engulfed the end of the stick, its colors shifting and changing from bright gold to deep blue as it danced in the darkness, casting an eerie glow upon the white robed and hooded figures that gathered about it. Urging the roan forward, the leader moved around the circle that had silently formed about him, touching his torch to another and another until a steady ring of fire burnt, revealing twelve riders in all.

Then, with a sharp nod to his men and a touch of his heel, he wheeled the horse and headed down the path to Four Corners, a trail of fire following in his wake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

            There were times, JD thought, when this town was getting downright tame. It was after six and the lower end was practically a ghost town. The windows of all the storefronts were darkened, the blinds pulled and the doors barred. The only exceptions were of course, the Gem Hotel, the erstwhile Standish Tavern, and Maggie Devane's boarding house. –All of which, by their own slightly questionable nature, were required to burn the midnight oil.

            He whistled softly to himself as he strode down the boardwalk, pausing now and then to check door handles. As he stepped further into the lengthening shadows of the evening, the whistling grew in volume if only to stave off the unearthly stillness that permeated the south end of town. As near as JD could tell, there was not another living thing out here on the street save himself and—

            "Aaggh!" He let out a startled yelp as a large black shadow dashed between his feet.

            --Gloria Potter's cat. He scowled down at the enormous, sleek gray tabby and shoved it out of the way with his foot. "Thanks a lot, Stink," he muttered. "Don't you have anything better to do than sneak up on people?"

            The tabby responded with a loud, rumbling purr and pressed itself even more firmly against his legs. He didn't know what Mrs. Potter had called the animal before its unfortunate encounter with a polecat in the alley behind the Gem Hotel, but the odor that had trailed it for weeks afterwards had settled the tom's name permanently in the eyes of the townspeople. Stink continued to purr and regarded the young Sheriff with wide, expectant yellow eyes.

            JD snorted. "Too late, pal. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow like everybody else."

            He felt a little foolish, talking to a cat, but he supposed it was better than no one at all. He tested the door to Potter's mercantile. To his surprise, it opened under his hand. The cat darted inside.

            "Guess you got lucky this time," he muttered, and then raised his voice to the ceiling above him.

            "Mrs. Potter!"

            He heard the floorboards squeak overhead and the soft, light footfalls that paused just at the top of the stairs that ascended the back of the building.

            "It's Sheriff Dunne!" he called again, "Your front door is open!"

            "Oh, my!" Gloria Potter descended the stairs in a flurry of hasty footsteps. "Thank you, Sheriff! I didn't realize! –I've been having trouble with that lock!"

            "No problem, ma'am," he said and stepped back outside. He waited until she had thrown the lock once more, and then rattled it again just to make sure. When it held, he tipped his hat, smiled politely and continued on his way, idly wishing something more exciting would happen. He was willing to bet that Bat Masterson or Wild Bill Hickock didn't while away their nights talking to cats and rattling door handles and checking up on widow ladies.

            Continuing on up the street, he spared a wistful glance towards the saloon, where Buck, Vin, Nathan and Josiah had gathered around Ezra's table on the landing above the stove to down their drinks and dry their clothing. But as he made his way doggedly up the street, he consoled himself with the thought that they hadn't seemed to be enjoying themselves much when he'd looked in on them a few minutes ago. Nathan's arm was still paining him if he worked it to much –which, of course, he was-- and Josiah looked every one of his considerable years after the long day's ride in the rain. Vin had been tired, but restless, and Buck was just down right moody. –As for Chris, JD wouldn't even go there. Aside from casting a quick look down the open double doors and into the alleyway, he'd given the livery stable a fairly wide berth. –So had most of the town, and JD figured that Yosemite might as well have closed up the blacksmith shop for all the business he did after Larabee rode in with that thundercloud over his head.

            He paused just outside the window of Maggie Devane's Boarding and Bath establishment and spared a brief peek in the curtained window at the well dressed ladies within. Maggie Devane, seated in a green-velvet wing chair near the fire, smiled and beckoned to him with an inviting tilt of her immaculately coiffed, flame-red head. Caught in the act, JD offered her a sheepish grin and a tip of his bowler hat as he hurried on his way. Tempting as the invitation was, he frankly didn't have the nerve. Besides, nothing went unnoticed in a town this small, and between the ribbing he'd get from Buck, and the cold shoulder he'd get from Casey, it just wasn't worth it.

            There was a light on in the Clarion, however, and as he neared the door he contemplated sticking his head in to say hello to Mrs. Travis. He quickly abandoned the idea as he passed her front window and saw that she already had company. Chris. _Well, who'd a figured that one? _

He shook his head and kept going, not anxious to intrude upon what must obviously be peace negotiations. Honestly, he was just glad they were over being mad at each other again. He never could figure just what it was with those two. One minute they could be as friendly as you pleased and the next they were ready to tear each other's throats out. –And when they weren't happy with each other, they weren't happy with _anybody._  That had been more than obvious this morning. He didn't know what kind of words Chris had exchanged with the newspaperwoman, but any kind of fool could see that it hadn't been friendly. Mrs. Travis had been about as pleasant as a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way and Chris had looked ready to shoot somebody. Much as he'd hated the thought of being stuck watching the town today, JD had to admit that he'd been halfway relieved that he'd avoided Larabee's surly mood.

            Descending the steps at the edge of the Clarion, he slogged across the street, scraped his boots on the worn wooden steps and continued on up the boardwalk to the north end of town. He was passing the darkened windows of Wheeler's now-vacant hotel when an odd flash of light caught his eye. Frowning, he paused for a moment as he tried to figure out where it had come from. Then he saw it again –a brief flare in the windows of Jerry Waak's Everything Store—and this time, it was longer. He put his hand on his gun belt for reassurance as he moved towards the glimmer, his heart quickening along with his footsteps. It had looked like the flame of a candle, and he wondered if he'd finally discovered an intruder to put some excitement into his night. As he neared the bend at the end of the street, the long black windows of the Stage Company came into view, and his thrill of excitement turned to outright fear as he saw the long trailing spots of flame that gleamed brightly in the darkened panes. –Not a thief….a fire.

            He whirled to look at the store fronts across the street, but there was no sign of the deadly flames that danced in the windows of the Stage Company. Jumping down off the boardwalk, he moved across the street for a closer look, but everything seemed fine. –No glow of flame, no smell of smoke. Puzzled by the phenomenon, he turned back to look at the reflected image of the flames, wondering if perhaps it wasn't the stage stop itself that was on fire and then he suddenly understood. The fire wasn't spreading _...it was moving._ Then, above the muted jangle of the piano from Digger Dave's Saloon, he heard it: the distinct sound of horses moving fast and growing louder. There were riders coming, and it sounded like a lot of them.

            He scrambled for the safety of the boardwalk, but the mud in the streets was heavy clay, and between the steady rain and the churning of the horses' hooves it bogged a man down and pulled at his ankles. In his haste to move, he lost his footing and tripped and went down. Cursing fiercely, he struggled back to his feet and wiped the mud from his eyes and mouth in time to see the pack of riders as they rounded the bend. There were a dozen men, but the flames of the torches reflected in the darkened windows seemed to multiply tenfold as they came mercilessly down the empty street.

            They were nearly upon him now and as he stood there, trapped in the mud, JD Dunne realized what an idiot he'd been for not appreciating dull nights of rattling door handles and talking to cats and widow ladies when he'd had the opportunity. He'd wanted a little excitement. Well, he certainly had it now –in spades. There was no sense in trying to run, and even as he drew his gun, he knew that it was useless. After all, there were twelve of them and one of him, but he figured if he was going to go down, he might as well go down shooting.

            Leveling his pistol on the nearest rider, he tried to fire, but the man suddenly leaned out low over the horse's neck and swung his arm. JD let out a startled cry of pain as the lash of the bull whip cut across his wrist and his shot went wild. Then the man straightened suddenly and gave the whip a mighty yank, wrapping it tight about JD's wrist and pulling him off his feet and to his knees. –And then they were upon him. JD tried to raise his arms about his head to protect himself, but a booted foot caught him squarely in the temple and he fell senseless among the flying hooves.

***

            Damp and chilly though the evening was, the press of unwashed bodies had made it stuffy in the crowded saloon and had prompted Inez to latch back the tall and solid inner doors that secured the building at night and protected its inhabitants from the elements during the cold winter months. There was not much of a breeze, and the crisp evening air that filtered through the slatted swinging doors was heavy with humidity, so the single gunshot, when it came, echoed clearly down the street and into the saloon, causing the noise of idle conversation to hush almost instantly.

            The four men who had taken up residence at the gambler's usual table beside the piano raised their heads sharply at the sound and exchanged swift, silent looks.

            "JD!" Buck exclaimed, kicking back his chair and heading to the windows that lined the front of the building. He had no doubt as to the source of the gunshot. –That damned fool kid could find trouble in the middle of a Sunday school class.

            Vin and Josiah were right behind him, hands drifting automatically to their gun belts as they drew back the heavy green velvet of the half curtained panes to peer out into the street. Tanner quickly counted the white-robed riders that moved boldly down the main street and his features turned grim.

            "Guess they must read the Clarion," he muttered.

            "Not for long," Josiah said pointedly as a large, raw-boned roan horse broke off from the group and moved directly for the newspaper office.

            "They're going to burn it," Nathan said, his voice holding an eerie, toneless quality that was somehow seemed more a comment upon a distant memory than a current happening.

            The statement was startling enough to turn Buck's eyes from their anxious search for JD. "A fire like that would take out the whole block! –They wouldn't…" 

            His words trailed off as the rider urged the roan up the steps and onto the boardwalk, then reined in the horse and raised his torch high.

            "Like hell they wouldn't!" Vin growled and dodged through the swinging doors, bringing his mare leg carbine to bear as he went.

***

            Chris took a tentative sip of the coffee he had just poured for himself and discovered that, true to Mary's prediction, it had almost reached the consistency and flavor of black crude oil. Still, he managed a smile as he lowered the cup.

            "Not bad."

            Mary Travis arched one delicate eyebrow. "Lying is a sin, Mr. Larabee," she said dryly, and narrowed her silver gaze upon him. "I believe you were saying something about an apology?"

            _Oh, she was just loving this. He shrugged and opened his mouth to speak –was still trying to frame the words in his mind—when the single gunshot interrupted his train of thought. Setting his mug down on her desk, he wheeled and headed for the door._

            "What?" Mary demanded, rising from her desk and trailing after him.

            Glancing out into the street, he saw the flames of the torches reflected in the window of the cigar store across the street. 

            "Shit!" he muttered, and reached for the door.

            "What is it?" Mary said again, staying him with a hand upon his forearm.

            The impossibly loud thud of hooves scrambling up the wooden steps of the boardwalk caused both of them to jump, and Chris swore viciously as the huge shadow of the beast suddenly loomed over both of them as it passed the doorway. He saw the upraised arm of the rider as it began to descend and relied upon instinct, rather than thought, as he shoved Mary to the floor.

            The shower of broken glass cascaded over them both as the burning torch smashed through the window and skidded across the floor in a shower of sparks. It ricocheted off the edge of the counter and rolled back against the wall behind the press. A spark snapped and a burning ember landed in the cleaning bucket of turpentine soaked rags. Mary gasped as the flames leapt high, licking their way up the wainscot trim towards the rack that held the rubber rollers.

            "The press!" she shrieked, and struggled to get up.

            "Forget the damned press!" Chris snapped, and pushed her back down, desperate to keep her out of harm's way. Scrambling to his knees, he pulled her with him, shoving her down against wall beneath the low front windows. The sound of gunfire erupted from the street and he risked a glance over the top of the window sill.

            Buck, for some damned fool reason, was charging out of the saloon like a maddened bull, shouting and shooting as he raced up the street towards …something. Another of the milling riders flung away the torch in his hand and drew a pistol from a pommel holster on his saddle. The torch landed on the boardwalk and rolled behind a water barrel and beneath a wooden bench. A buckskin clad arm snaked out and snatched up the burning stake, hurling it back into the muddy street, and Chris turned in time to see the rider now leveling his pistol squarely on Buck's unprotected back.

            Swearing savagely, Chris yanked his own gun free of its holster and squeezed off a hasty shot. The bullet went wide of its intended mark, but it was close enough to startle the man, spoiling his aim. Larabee cursed and was aiming again, centering the man more carefully in his sights, when the crack of a rifle rang out and the rider collapsed over his saddle horn, the pistol dropping from his fingers as he clutched at his wounded shoulder.

            The flames were crackling ominously behind him now and Mary was struggling fiercely beneath him in her panic to douse the steadily growing fire. Chris wrapped his free arm about her, pulling her tightly against his chest, all the while squeezing off shots at the riders. It was bedlam in the street. Between the milling horses, the fire and the shots being exchanged between Vin, Josiah, Nathan and the white-robed raiders, everything was a mass of confusion. A rider on a tall, red horse broke suddenly from the group and raced madly down the street, urging his mount close to the boardwalk in front of the Clarion. Chris tried to draw aim upon him, but the rider suddenly dropped low off the side of the horse and thrust something into the mud in front of the building.

            A moment later the roan horse followed, its rider snatching a burning torch from one of the other men and leaning low over the animal's neck to touch it to the object thrust in the mud. There was a flare of light and the cross burst instantly to flame.

            Then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone.

            Mary was still struggling beneath him, her language taking a decidedly unladylike turn as she fought to free herself from his grasp. Turning, Chris eyed the leaping flames that had licked their way up the wainscot trim to engulf the rack that held the rubber rollers for the press. One look at the roaring fire that billowed from the bucket of cleaning rags caused him to determine that he didn't want her any where near the blaze. Shrugging out of his Mexican poncho, he thrust it into her hands.

            "Wet that down!" he barked, and shoved her out the front door where she nearly collided with Vin. Skidding to a stop, Tanner's eyes widened slightly as he assessed the situation, and he wasted no time in shrugging off his heavy buckskin jacket.

            Chris pointed to the bucket. "Smother it," he ordered tersely.

            Vin nodded and threw his coat over the flaming bucket with a deft movement, kicking it away from the burning wall. Mary returned brandishing the dripping poncho and Chris took it from her hands, turning to beat at the burning wall with the heavy, wet wool. Josiah appeared a moment later, carrying two pails of water collected from a rain barrel outside. In a few minutes, the four of them stood staring at the scorched wall and the smoldering, melted rollers that hung from the charred ruins of the rack.

            Chris turned to Mary his gaze sweeping over her disheveled appearance, his jaw tightening as he noted the small cuts on her cheek and the back of her hands where the shards from the broken window had struck her. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

            "I'm fine," Mary sighed, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and eyeing the ruins of her shop in dismay. "But it would seem that you're not the only one who takes issue with my editorials."

***

            JD moaned and struggled to open his eyes, vaguely aware that someone was calling his name.

            "Come on, Kid!" Wilmington pleaded, wiping the mud and blood from the pale, still features with a desperation that bordered on panic. "Don't you be worryin' ole Buck like this!"

            Dammit! –Was the kid even breathing? Half turning, Buck searched the street that was rapidly filling with curious onlookers. 

"NATHAN!" he bellowed the name loud enough to be heard all the way to the livery.

The healer came quickly, slogging through the mud at a half run and falling to his knees beside Buck, heedless of the mud that soaked through their clothing. J.D. groaned and fluttered his eyelids, then opened them suddenly and struggled to sit up. He was stopped by Nathan's hand, firmly placed in the middle of his chest.

"Whoa! Take it easy now, J.D." the healer advised. "That's a nasty bump you got there. Might not want to try sittin' just yet. They rattled your cage pretty good."

"Used him for a goddamn doormat is what they did," Buck growled as Nathan peeled back J.D.'s filthy shirt to reveal a darkening bruise in the perfect shape of a ragged, unshod hoof on his left shoulder.

"He's been stepped on some," Nathan agreed. "Lucky for him that pony lost a shoe. --Probably got sucked off in all this mud."

Nathan prodded gently at the young man's body, taking note of the numerous cuts and bruises. At last he sighed and rocked back on his heels. "Let's get him over to the clinic. We can get him cleaned off and have a better look."

The healer looked around and spotted Vin, coming out of the front door of the Clarion, his jacket missing and his face streaked with soot.

"He all right?" Tanner asked, taking in Buck's worried expression and JD's trampled state.

"Just a little stepped on is all," Nathan said rising to his feet. "--Could use a hand gettin' him down to the clinic though.

Tanner nodded and moved forward to help Buck in lifting JD to his feet. 

"Be careful," Nathan cautioned. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a busted rib or two, --wouldn't want to puncture a lung."

With gentle hands Buck and Vin reached for their friend, but JD shoved them back, sitting up on his own power and somehow managing to stay vertical. "I can make it," he mumbled. "—Just a little light headed is all."

Still, he accepted Buck's outstretched hand and allowed the larger man to pull him to his feet. He wavered unsteadily for a long moment, and then leaning heavily upon Buck and Vin, he doggedly started his feet in the direction of the livery.

Wilmington was already in full mother hen mode, chastising the younger man for his latest bout of foolishness.

"Damn, Kid! Ya scairt the hell outta me when I saw you layin' out there like that. I figured they'd shot ya! –What did I tell ya about bein' more careful? It's durned fool stunts like that that are gonna make me old an' you dead!"

Vin shot Wilmington a sidelong look. "--You're one ta' talk, Bucklin. The way you went chargin' out into the street, I thought you'd gone plumb loco. When that fella tossed his torch and drew down on you, I figured you for a goner."

"Yeah," Buck admitted, "I owe you for that one, pard. –I never even saw him comin' 'til you took him out."

"Wasn't me," Vin said, and nodded to Larabee who was just now exiting the Clarion. "It was Chris. –I was too busy puttin' out that torch before it burnt down the saloon."

Larabee, overhearing the comment, shook his head as he jumped down off the boardwalk and fell in step beside them. "Don't thank me," he said, "I may be good with a pistol, but I ain't that good." He nodded to Nathan. "It was either you or Josiah –whoever was upstairs with the rifle—that got him."

This caused everyone to halt in mid-stride. Vin and Buck, because of their surprise at the statement, and JD because he could not go forward without them. Vin frowned at Larabee.

"None of us had rifles," he said slowly.

"…and Josiah and I were both down stairs," Nathan finished, looking from Buck to Vin and back to Larabee.

"Well then who—" Buck began, and broke off as all eyes slowly raised to the saloon with it's bank of second story windows that faced out onto the street. The one on the corner of the building was open, a bit of white lace curtain stirring softly in the faint evening breeze.

Nathan sighed and shook his head, his expression an odd combination of admiration and disgust as he answered Buck's question in a single word. 

"Ezra," he said flatly, and turned automatically in the direction of the saloon.

Chris stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You go on and see to JD, first. I'll look in on him."

With a nod and a look of gratitude the healer continued on down the street after the other men. Now that the danger was over, an interested crowd of onlookers had gathered on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, but one look at Larabee's severe countenance was all it took to send them scattering. Striding down the now empty boardwalk, he climbed the stairs that ascended the exterior of the building to enter near the back of the second floor. Judging from the din that was slowly rising up the inside staircase from the taproom below, he gathered that Inez was successfully encouraging her customers back for another drink now that the excitement had passed. A few more strides carried him to Ezra's door and he wondered what he would find behind it. –Hopefully, Standish back in bed where he belonged, but he knew it was too much to ask.

Pushing open the door to the gambler's room, Chris paused at the threshold and shook his head. He was glad he had taken the back stairs, for Inez might have noticed had he entered from the front and he wasn't sure that this was something she needed to see.

            Hell, it wasn't something that he needed to see either, but there was no help for it. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and locked it, his eyes traveling from the empty bed and the open door of the wardrobe to the window where the battered and naked figure lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. A Winchester rifle was still clutched in his hand. He didn't need Tanner's skill at reading sign to put together what had happened. Shaking his head, he came to stand over Ezra as he tried to determine the best way to get him back into bed while doing him the least damage. –Not that it mattered much. From what he could see, there was damned little to Standish that _wasn't _damaged.

            Crouching down he watched the steady rise and fall of the gambler's rib cage. "Good thing you're unconscious," he muttered as he picked up Ezra's arm and pulled it across his shoulders, "because this is gonna hurt like a bitch."

***

The smoke had finally cleared enough that she could almost draw breath without coughing. Still, Mary told herself it was the acrid fumes, rather than anger and frustration that was causing the damp tears to streak down her cheeks as she grimly stared at the smoldering ruins that surrounded her printing press. The rollers were a total loss and the press itself was still too hot to touch, so she had no idea how the heat of the fire had affected it. However, she doubted it had survived unscathed. Judging from the slight droop of the foot pedal, she suspected that the heat of the flames had warped the spring steel enough that it would no longer turn the flywheel that powered the press. So much for next week's edition, she thought ruefully as she dabbed at her streaming eyes and nose with the backs of her soot smudged hands.

A blue bandanna, clean but faded and slightly the worse for wear appeared suddenly beneath her hand and she looked up into the somber features of Josiah Sanchez.

"How bad is it?" the preacher asked softly.

She accepted the bandanna with a grateful smile and dabbed quickly at her eyes and nose before wiping her sooty hands upon it. "Bad enough," she admitted, somewhat surprised to find the man still with her. She had assumed he had left on the heels of Larabee and Tanner.

Expelling a shallow breath, she nodded towards the skeletons that hung in the roller rack, still dripping long strings of melted rubber that the fire had not completely consumed. "Even if I had the money to pay up front, it would take at least a week to order new rollers from St. Louis. But since I don't have the money, it will likely take three, --and lord only knows what else will need to be done to the press…"

"What can I do to help?"

Mary shook her head as she considered the offer. "I don't know," she confessed, "I'll need…" she trailed off as a wave of dizziness washed over her and Josiah quickly caught her in his large, bear-like grip.

"What you need," he said firmly, "is some fresh air."

Spinning her about, he pushed her towards the front door. "You can worry about the rest of it later."

Mary stepped across the threshold and hesitated as she suddenly felt the weight of dozens of eyes upon her. Now that the danger was over, an interested crowd of onlookers had gathered on the boardwalk and out in the street, while more discreet citizens peered from behind curtained windows.  

A few curious eyes noted the slow progress of the trio that moved hesitantly down the street towards the livery, trailed a few steps by Nathan. Several more scurried out of Larabee's way as he hurried towards the saloon, taking the steps up onto the boardwalk two at a time. But as she stepped through the Clarion's front door she could hear the low rumble of discontented voices and her jaw tightened as she caught a muttered comment about "that meddling newspaper woman."

Josiah's hand upon her arm was a solid, steady comfort and it bolstered her enough to meet the gaze of her detractor, a store clerk from up the street who now pointed angrily at the burning cross.

"What is this?" he demanded, "What kind of trouble have you stirred up now, woman?"

Mary paled, but straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, a fierce light burning in her gray eyes as she withstood their accusatory gaze. She opened her mouth to answer, but another man broke in before she could speak, his voice hard with accusation.

"It's a warning," he said, "to stay out of business that ain't none of our affair."

"It's a sign," a third man interjected, and stopped as Josiah suddenly jumped from the boardwalk and stalked to the flaming object that held everyone transfixed.

He sent the cross flying to pieces of charred and burning bits with a savage kick and glowered at the gathering crowd, an unholy anger burning in his eyes. With a heavy, scarred boot, he stomped the broken pieces down into the mud, where they were quickly extinguished. Only then did he allow him self to speak, his voice quiet and purposeful and daring contradiction.

"No," Josiah declared, his voice was dark with fury. "It's an abomination."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

            "Whiskey, Inez. –Bring at least two bottles."

            _Yes, Ezra thought dimly as he crested on a wave of pain and expelled a shallow breath before the next one hit, __--whiskey would be good._

            With an extreme exertion of will, he forced one eye open and fixed upon the stub of a tapered candle that burnt on the wash stand across the room. The flame cast strange, flickering shadows upon the smooth plaster walls but the objects it illuminated seemed fuzzy and indistinct. Everything was fuzzy, he thought, except for the hot daggers of pain that ripped across his back and shoulders. Still, he sensed that his misery was far from private. Some vague intuition alerted him to the presence of others beyond the calm and commanding voice that had ordered the whiskey. He strained his vision to focus and identify them, but they remained little more than shadowed figures lurking at the perimeter of his vision.

            He focused again upon the voice that was muttering softly to the accompaniment of rustling leather and clinking glass. Nathan, he decided. Of course it would be Nathan.

            "You want a drink at a time like this?" Another voice, sharp with disbelief and perhaps a bit of indignation cut in on the soft muttering. 

            _Sounds like a capital idea to me, Ezra wanted to say, but unfortunately he did not seem to have the energy to form the words. However, he vaguely recognized the speaker as JD, though the young Mr. Dunne seemed to lack his normal reserve of boundless energy. He understood the feeling. Another wave of pain washed over him and he drew in a sharp shallow breath. He was on fire now, and his skin felt like a furnace wherever it came in contact with something other than the cool evening air._

            "It ain't for drinkin'," Nathan said patiently, and Ezra felt the first small trickle of dread flow through his conciousness. "An' you ought to be lyin' down. –I knew I shoulda had Buck hogtie you to the bed."

            "I'm fine," JD muttered, clearly out of sorts with the coddling.

            "Uh huh," Nathan's response was rife with disbelief. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

            _Really, Mr. Jackson, I have no idea, Ezra thought irritably. _If you would hold them out where I could see them, I might be able to tell you…__

            There was a long hesitation. "Three," JD said at last.

            Nathan snorted again and continued to rummage through his pack.

            "Good guess," a third voice said quietly at the periphery of Ezra's awareness. –It sounded like Vin. 

            "How is he?" A fourth voice asked.

            _Buck…Ezra realized with a flare of rising aggravation. _Good Lord, what did Inez do? –Sell tickets?__

            "Not good," Nathan replied. "He didn't do himself no favors gettin' outta bed like that. Some of these cuts are already infected, and when he hit the floor he landed on his back an' ground a little more dirt into em' for good measure. It's gonna take some time to clean him up again."

            "I'm surprised he was able to get out of bed at all," Buck said, "considerin' the shape he's in."

            "And runnin' a fever to boot," Nathan added worriedly, stepping nearer, and Ezra quickly closed his eyes as he felt a large hand rest against his sweaty brow. "Musta been delirious to try it."

            A large, bulky shadow moved across the flame of the candle to stand before the window. "Heck of a shot he made, though," JD observed.

            "Heck of a lucky shot," Vin amended, "half out of his head like that, it's a wonder he didn't shoot Buck."

            _Luck had nothing to do with it, Mr. Tanner, Ezra thought dryly, _I simply aimed for the one in the middle…__

            The door creaked softly on its hinges and a soft, light footstep resounded on the hardwood floor. The sound of the tread was familiar to him by now, and the softly accented voice was nearly a comfort as she passed the bottles to Nathan. "I brought the whiskey. Will you need anything else?"

            Nathan sighed heavily. "Thank you, Inez. That'll do for now." He hesitated and then continued. "You might want to go on down an' see if you can get that piano player that wandered in on the stage the other day to start up a ruckus. It might soothe the customers a bit if things get a bit unpleasant."

            Ezra heard the welcome sound of a cork being popped and liquid being poured. From somewhere below the jangle of the piano commenced, the slightly off key notes rolling faintly up the stairwell and echoing down the empty hall. He was feeling lightheaded now, and the steady beat of the bass notes seemed to pound in time with the pulsing pain of his back. He vaguely sensed someone looming over him and heard Nathan's quiet voice and felt the firm hand that grasped his jaw.

            "Ezra, you hear me?"

            He managed to pry one eye back open, but could barely make out the healer's features in the spinning shadows of the room. He felt the fingers working at his jaw.

            "I need you to open your mouth now."

            He did, almost in a daze and felt the thick piece of well tanned leather inserted between his teeth. It had a slightly salty taste with a hint of rancid oil that made him want to gag.

            "Bite down," Nathan instructed, "this is gonna hurt some." The healer's face floated above him, the deep brown eyes looking grim and apologetic. "I'd give you laudanum if you hadn't already had it, and I'm afraid any more could be dangerous. I'll do this as quick as I can," he promised, and then turned away.

            "You'd best hold him down," Nathan instructed quietly. "This won't be pleasant."

            _Oh no, Ezra thought, and struggled to get up, to get away, but large hands gripped him and held him firmly in place even as Josiah's quiet voice floated softly into his ear. He felt the preacher's hard, calloused palm close around his own fingers as Josiah spoke quietly._

            "Hold on, brother," he said quietly. "Hold on just as tight as you need to 'til it's done."

            Then the cold fire of the alcohol splashed across his raw flesh and he screamed. He kept screaming until the light of the candle seemed to shimmer and dance and the room began to spin. An eternity later, the darkness claimed him.

***

            Orrin Travis read the telegram a second time and then wordlessly folded it and tucked it in his pocket before shoving a coin towards the clerk who waited behind the counter of the telegraph office. The news from Larabee was grim at best, and now it seemed that Mary had somehow gotten herself tangled up in it. –Not that he was surprised about that. His daughter-in-law was every bit the firebrand Stephen had been, if not more so. He just hoped she didn't get herself killed too. Orrin realized now that he'd come to rely upon Larabee and his lot as much to keep an eye on Mary as to protect the town. Knowing his daughter-in-law as he did, it could easily take all seven of them to keep her out of trouble.

            Stepping out of the telegraph office and into the street, Travis surveyed the bustling trade of Ridge City. The railroad had brought wealth and prosperity to the town and along with it, a certain civilizing influence. There were already three banks here, in addition to four new hotels and an opera house that seemed to have sprung up overnight. The town council had taken an active interest in making civic improvements to the town and there was already talk of petitioning the territorial government for a permanent judge to be assigned to the town, removing it from Orrin's circuit. 

Travis wasn't entirely certain how he felt about that. On the one hand, he enjoyed the political influence his wide reaching jurisdiction gave him over the various towns in this part of the country. On the other hand, he was pushing sixty seven this year, and much as he hated to admit it, the travel was getting to him. He couldn't sit a horse for long days in the saddle the way he had done as a younger man, and even the stage was becoming a bit much to take. There were days, he thought, when he wouldn't have minded staying home with Evie and Billy in the quiet little house in Watsonville and letting the rest of the territory just go to the devil.

            Unfortunately, he knew that that was exactly what would happen if he did hang it up, and so he kept on riding stage after stage, and passing judgment after judgment in one shoddy little courtroom after another in the same continuous circle that never seemed to end. –Except that eventually it would end, all things did, and they would roll him up with the Indians, and the buffalo and the drifting cowboys and gunfighters and put him out to pasture with the rest of the rapidly vanishing wild frontier. As he stood there on the boardwalk and surveyed the rapidly flourishing town around him, Travis had little doubt that the determined progress of the railroad would wield the same effect upon Four Corners, Eagle Bend, Watsonville and the other towns it passed through. 

The telegram in his pocket rustled softly as he moved, and he idly wondered what would happen to Larabee and his men when progress did come. Would they settle or would they drift? He was not sure. Right now, he knew, they would drift. They already had done so when Sheriff Bryce had come to town and relieved them of their duties. Still, Orrin had sensed that none of them had been particularly anxious to leave. Rather, they had been more resigned to their fate than anything. Time had a way of changing not only places, but people, and deep down Travis secretly suspected that it might even be able to transform that lot of ne'er do well drifters into settled men and citizens. –Provided they lived long enough to see it.

Right now, there seemed to be some doubt about that. Standish, he knew, had been seriously injured and Nathan and JD had taken some lumps as well over the past few days. Word had filtered across the grapevine about the attack on Randall's station, and the telegraph agent had only this morning given him the word about the raid on Four Corners and the Clarion the night before. More, in fact, than what was written in Larabee's telegram, but then agents were well known to gossip with their friends and fellow colleagues over the wire to pass the time.

Balling his hands in the pockets of his trousers, Orrin considered the telegram again. There had been an element of frustration in Larabee's tersely worded message. They had turned the country upside down and thus far had nothing to show for it, save a single name: Hans Detweiler. It was a frustration that Orrin himself was starting to share, but for an entirely different reason.

Travis frowned as he paced down the length of the boardwalk and crossed the street to the tall, two-story building that served as a courthouse. The name vaguely rang a bell with him, but he could not quite place it. In this particular line of work there were so many people who passed through his court –both those seeking justice and those awaiting judgment— that he could not remember all of them. But from time to time, a name would be mentioned and it would worry at the edges of his memory long enough for him to know that he had heard it somewhere before. Hans Detweiler was one of those names.

Entering the courthouse, he spared a brief nod to the town clerk, and made his way back to the long oak table where the stacked volumes of old court logs awaited him. Over the past week as he passed through each of the towns along his circuit, he had found himself thumbing through the old logs of the court cases he had presided over, scanning the pages of defendants and witnesses and even jurors for the elusive name of Hans Detweiler. He was halfway through his third dusty volume of the afternoon when the clerk, a slight man of fifty with thinning hair suddenly appeared at his shoulder.

"Somethin' I can help you find, Judge?"

Travis looked up. "I don't know, Jasper. Maybe you can. I'm looking for mention of a man that I think may have been involved in a case I tried. The trouble is I can't remember what town it was in, or how long ago."

"Well, if it was here, I sure enough would be able to tell you," the clerk proudly proclaimed. "What's the name?"  
            "Detweiler," Travis supplied, "Hans Detweiler."

Jasper looked thoughtful. "Plaintiff or Defendant?"

"If there's any mention of him at all, I strongly suspect he would fall in the Defendant category," the judge replied.

The clerk merely nodded at this and wandered off to his desk to consult a box of cards, and then a shelf of books, and finally at long last one of the volumes of court logs that Travis had yet to examine.

"Here it is," Jasper pronounced. "Hans Detweiler, arrested for public drunkenness and assault. He was sentenced to three days and a fifty dollar fine in January of last year."

Travis studied the log. As with most of those brought before his bench, there was no place of residence or occupation listed for Detweiler. However, he noticed that the fifty dollar fine had been paid, and promptly to boot.

"How was the fine paid? In cash?"

Jasper took note of the entry, then trotted back to consult another book, this one a ledger. 

"Nope," he replied. "It was a Bank draft from the Cattleman's Bank up the street."

Travis smiled. Here at last was a break. "Do you have an account or draft number?"

Jasper nodded again. "Sure do."

Five minutes later, Orrin Travis marched up the street to the Cattleman's Bank with the number of Detweiler's account tucked in his pocket. Twenty minutes after that, he crossed the street to the telegraph office and sent a wire back to Larabee. It was frugally worded but he was certain Chris would understand.

H.D. EMPLOYED BY LEON MCALLISTER.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION.  
            O.T.

***

Mary nudged the kerosene lantern closer to her head and snaked her arm carefully into the innards of the printing press above her. Locking the wrench over the stubborn bolt, she began to apply pressure, gritting her teeth with the effort. True to form, it did not budge.

            "What do you know about a man named Leon McAllister?"  
            The unexpected voice startled her. Her hand slipped, banging against the frame of the press hard enough to elicit a small gasp of pain. Bringing her bruised knuckles to her mouth, she sucked them hard for a moment –as much to stifle the pain as the unladylike curse that threatened to escape her lips. Not that there was very much ladylike about her position, she thought ruefully, lying as she was, flat on her back and gazing up through the open platen of the press. Somehow, it was only par for the course that the owner of the voice should be Chris Larabee, who now gazed down at her through the open press with a bemused smile playing at his lips.

            "He's no one to take lightly," she replied, sliding carefully out from under the press and praying that her petticoats would not reveal themselves as she did so. She could only imagine what a ghastly sight she must present, with her hair flying and her clothes and cheeks smudged with the soot she had spent the better part of the day washing from the walls and ceiling.

            Fortunately, in spite of his rough reputation, Chris Larabee was too much of a gentleman to comment upon such things and it soothed her womanly pride enough that she was able to accept the hand that he offered. As he pulled her to her feet, she shot him a quizzical look.

            What do you want with him?"  
            Larabee handed her a slip of paper. "I think the man we're lookin' for is on his payroll."

            Mary studied the telegram. It was from Orrin, and the message was nearly as cryptic as the man who stood before her. "Who's H.D.?" She asked.

            "Hans Detweiler," Chris supplied as he tossed his hat down on the counter and took the wrench from her hand. "His name came up in a conversation I had with a bartender over at Eagle Bend," he replied, kneeling down and peering into the interior of the press. "I think he may be connected with the men who ambushed Nathan and Ezra."

            "And raided us last night?"

            He nodded slightly, "I'd say it's likely, --unless there's some other band of roughnecks in bed sheets you've irritated lately." He peered down into the press with a small frown. "What are you tryin' to do with this thing, anyway?"

            "Remove the foot pedal. The fire damaged the spring bar. I need to take it off and have Yosemite straighten and re-temper it."

            Leaning over his shoulder, Mary pointed out the bolt she had been attempting to loosen, and watched as he reached into the press to try his hand at it.

            "So how does McAllister fit into all this?"

            There was a clank of metal as the wrench slipped off the bolt. Chris toed the lantern beneath the press aside with his boot, redirecting the light. "We weren't having much luck tracking Detweiler, so I asked the Judge to look into it." He nodded at the telegram. "He sent that from Ridge City this afternoon."

            "You really think that McAllister is behind this?" There was a tint of worry in Mary's voice.

            "It would follow," Chris grunted, exerting force upon the wrench. It didn't budge. "From what we were able to drag out of Ezra and Nathan and that bartender back at Eagle Bend, I'd have to say that Detweiler doesn't strike me as the type to put together that kind of an outfit on his own. He's got to have a supporter. According to the Judge, that man is McAllister."

            "If he is involved, then it will be trouble," Mary observed. "Leon McAllister is becoming a powerful man in territorial politics."

            "What exactly are his politics?" Chris asked, fitting the wrench to the bolt and applying pressure. She watched a moment, mesmerized by the play of muscles in his forearm as he struggled with the bolt, and then belatedly realized he was expecting an answer.

            "It's not exactly what you would call progressive reform," she said at last. "He's very pro-Southern. Rumor has it that he came from Mississippi. They say he was an officer in the Confederate army, and that he was on Beauregard's staff. What was left of his plantation and mills after the war was lost in the Reconstruction. He came west to start over." Mary frowned. "From the sound of it, he'd like to rebuild the Old South in the New West."

            "Including slavery?" Chris asked.

            "It wouldn't surprise me," she sighed, and then looked sharply at him as she realized exactly what he was getting at. "You think that the lynchings are part of an organized movement?"

            "It looks that way," Chris said. "McAllister brought his politics with him. Maybe he brought his friends, too."

            Mary's blue eyes were troubled as she considered this news. "If he did, this could be more dangerous than you realize. A lot of Southern sympathizers came west after the war. McAllister's movement might appeal to them if they share his beliefs. If this group is a secret society, they could recruit anyone –even our neighbors—and we would never suspect."

            Chris freed the bolt and extracted it from the press. Placing it in Mary's hand, he closed her fingertips over it. "That's why I want to stop this before it starts."

            She frowned at him, her blue eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What are you planning?" she demanded.

            "I'm not sure yet," he said honestly, setting the wrench down onto the wooden feeder table of the press. But as he stood there, surrounded by the untidy array of printing paraphernalia, he could feel the smallest seed of a plan beginning to germinate. He did not have all the pieces yet, but he knew the tools when he saw them.

            "How long is it going to take you to get the paper up and running again?" He asked mildly, indicating the broken press and the scorched walls and furniture that surrounded it.

            Mary sighed. "At this rate? –Too long." She smiled wanly, "I'm not much of a hand with a wrench, but nearly everything that's damaged can be fixed here except the rollers." She looked dejectedly at the charred outline on the wall where the roller rack had once stood. "I'll have to send to St. Louis for new ones. It would take at least a week for them to get here –even if I did have the money to pay for them."

            "How much will it cost?"

            She detected a look of calculation in the olive gray depths of his eyes and realized he was not just making polite conversation. "Why?" she asked, suddenly curious.

            Chris nodded to the press. "If I help you fix this thing and loan you the money to buy the parts you need, will you print something for me in the Clarion?"

            Mary frowned, "It depends. Is this the kind of thing that's going to bring another torch bearing mob to my door in the middle of the night?"

            The smile he flashed her was not reassuring.

            "I'll let you know."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

            He did not know how long he had slept, but it was dark when the soft creak of the door swinging on its hinges stirred him from slumber. A flicker of light danced along the smooth white walls of his room as Inez stepped inside, a candle stick in one hand and a tray balanced carefully in the other.

            "What time is it?" He mumbled, carefully levering himself up on one elbow to look at her. Her black hair tumbled loosely about her shoulders in tangled obsidian waves, and she looked tired and harried.

            "Almost nine." Her voice was apologetic. "I would have come sooner, but it has been busy tonight."

            "Who's minding the bar?"

            "Senor Sanchez."

            Ezra chuckled dryly. "Well, if you can't trust a man of God with the liquor stock, who can you trust?"

            Inez made a non-committal noise and set the tray beside him. Her hands were gentle as she checked his dressings and smoothed more of the green salve on the more sensitive areas of his back. Still, by the time she had finished, he was sweating from the effort it had cost him not to curse.

            "There," she said at last, wiping her hands on her apron, "that should do until morning."

            She laid a hand upon his forehead, brushing away the damp tendrils of sweat-soaked hair with a surprisingly gentle touch. "You still have a fever," her voice was grim, but she said nothing more. 

She'd already given him more than a piece of her mind about his getting out of bed the night before. Never mind the fact that his efforts had saved her most ardent suitor from being shot in the back. The least that she could do was show a little gratitude, he thought sourly.

            "I've baked in this oven you call a sick room for most of a day," Ezra grumbled. "Were I a Christmas goose, you could have served me hours ago."

            Inez made no comment, but reached for the damp cloth from the wash basin and sponged his brow. "You should eat," she said, wringing out the rag.

            "I'm not hungry," he grunted, clearly out of sorts with the world in general.

            Inez eyed him warily, as if sizing up a wounded mountain lion. "Your mother said you were a wretched patient. I think I am beginning to see her point of view."

            "And I'm beginning to understand why she engaged your services in her absence," Ezra retorted as the surly mood closed over him completely. "The two of you have much in common."

            Inez snorted and shook her head. "No, Senor, we will not play this game, I think." She tossed the cloth back into the basin where it landed with a soft splash. "I am not your mother. I will not force you to eat." She looked at him grimly, "I will not even force you to get well. I bring you your meals and change your dressings. I will do what you ask of me, and that is all."

            "Then leave me alone!" he snapped, regretting the words almost instantly.

            She shrugged. "Very well," she said simply and turned to leave.

            "Inez," Ezra sighed, reaching out to stay her. He caught at her hand and missed. Settling for a bit of her sleeve, he tugged at it gently. She stopped.

            "I'm sorry," he said, his voice more repentant.

            "As you should be," she said evenly. It was a sure sign she was still angry, but she paused long enough to straighten the sheet across his shoulders, a sign that perhaps she would not be angry for long.

            She nodded to the tray she had left beside the bed. "There is broth and tea there if you want it. I'm going back to work. I'll check in again after I close for the night."

            "Thank you," he said, hoping he sounded as if he meant it, for he did.

            _"De nada," she replied, and slipped quietly back out the door and into the hallway._

            The broth was hot, but good –as all of Inez's cooking was. The tea he was not as fond of, being a coffee drinker himself, and it had an oddly sweet taste that he could not quite place. It was only after the drowsiness settled over him, dulling the edges of his senses and his pain, that he recognized it …laudanum. He cursed softly. Nathan must have given it to her. He hated the damned stuff. It always made him queasy. He would have to…

            He never finished the thought, but slipped once more into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

***

            "I've been thinking…" Mary Travis mused, as she studied the large territorial map pinned to the wall above her roll-topped desk.

            "That's always dangerous," Chris observed from his position on the floor behind the press. "Got a hammer?"

            He could feel her icy blue gaze drilling him through the steel platen of the press as she reached over and slapped a small hammer into his hand with slightly more force than was necessary. He grinned.

            "What were you thinking about?"

            "The raids on the homesteaders," Mary said, standing up to get a closer view of the map. "Where did you say the Lincoln place was?"

            "Just north of Eagle Bend. It's maybe four or five miles east of where Bitterroot Creek branches off towards Whitley Pass."

            Mary drew an ever-present pencil from her hair and made a small mark on the map in the area Chris described. She muttered softly to herself, her fingers walking their way up the map as she searched through the names of towns and other landmarks.

            "According to Orrin, there was another family burnt out at Watsonville," she made another notation. "One was south of Ridge City, and another just north of the pass."

            The pencil scratched softly against the heavy paper as she marked the locations the Judge's telegram had indicated, and then stepped back to survey the map. A frown creased her features as her eyes sought a pattern.

            "Chris," she said quietly.

            He poked his head out from beneath the press, the odd note in her voice capturing his attention completely.

            "What do Watsonville, Ridge City and Whitley Pass all have in common?"

            Chris frowned. "Aside from the raids, I couldn't tell you. There's not much to Whitley Pass, but Watsonville and Ridge City do all right. They all have stage service and the telegraph." He shrugged. "I don't know about Watsonville, but the rail line runs through Ridge City and the Pass…"

            He climbed quickly from behind the press to join her in front of the map and quickly spotted the connection she had made. Grabbing the pencil from her hand, he cast about for something to use as a straight edge and settled at last for an empty composing stick left lying on the counter. Laying the shallow metal tray against the map, Chris quickly ran the pencil along the smooth, gauged surface and connected the dots. When he stepped back, the pencil line made a heavy, stilted arc from the railhead in Ridge City, through Watsonville, around Whitley Pass and down to Eagle Bend.

            "A spur line," Mary breathed.

            Chris nodded. "Going around Whitley Pass like that is a few miles out of the way, but it would save the railroad a fortune in bridges and tunnels."

            "Not to mention time," Mary said. She studied the map carefully. "There have been rumors that the railroad was considering adding a spur line from Ridge City down here, but no formal announcement has been made yet."

            Larabee tossed the pencil and composition stick down onto the desk. "I'd say McAllister and his pals have a pretty good idea of what that announcement is going to be."

            "And the land that lies along that route will nearly double before the end of the year," Mary added. She shook her head, her blue eyes snapping with anger. "Do you really think that that's what all of this boils down to? –A land grab?"  
            Chris shook his head. "No, I think there's a lot more to it than that, but it definitely looks like a part of their plan." He waved his hand over the area the pencil had crossed. "Most of that is decent ranch land. Not as good as what the big spread cover over to the west of here. It's rougher, with more rocks and hills, but there's decent grazing and water enough for the smaller ranchers to make a go of it. Even if the railroad never came through there that land would still bring a fair price. If a spur line does go through, that land will bring a premium."

            He looked thoughtfully at the area around Eagle Bend. Between the foothills and the creeks, the engineers would probably want to cut to the north and east as they came into town. It would save them a few extra bridges and grades. No wonder the raiders had gone after the Lincoln place. It lay right in the middle of a prime route for the rail line. His gaze trailed lower, and he felt a small grim twist of irony curling at his mouth. The Lincoln place wasn't the only piece of prime ground.

            "Damn," he said softly, "right place --wrong time."

            Mary looked at him curiously. "What?"  
            He traced his finger south of the Lincoln ranch, between the creek and the foothills East of Eagle Bend. "If they decide to come through that way, it would cut across the northwest section of my old ranch." He smiled at her grimly. "If I was still ranching, I could have sold that section off to them for a pretty sum."

            "Who owns it now?"  
            Chris shrugged. "Don't rightly know."

            "You didn't sell it?"  
            The look in his eyes almost spoke louder than his silence and Mary regretted pursuing the question. After all these years, all this time, he still couldn't quite bring himself to speak of it. Not even with those who knew.

            He sighed and shook his head. "I just walked away," he said finally.

            Mary nodded. She understood completely. After Stephen's death, she had walked away from the neat little house at the edge of town and moved herself into the small rooms above the Clarion. It was still standing there, vacant and un-rented, still filled with the pieces of furniture she had not had room for in her small apartments. She doubted if she could ever bring herself to set foot in the place again. The life that she had lived there was gone now. It would never fit her again.

            "I guess it doesn't really belong to anybody anymore," Chris said quietly.

            Mary looked surprised, "Nobody's filed another claim on it?" The country was rapidly becoming settled, and it was unusual for decent land or abandoned claims to lie fallow for long.

            Chris shook his head, his face grim. "I'd proven up the claim and I held the deed. –Not that that necessarily means much in these parts. But nobody's taken it up, last we were through there."

            No, Mary realized as she considered the situation more carefully, nobody would. If the tragedy that had happened there was not enough to put them off, then Chris Larabee's reputation would have. Beside her, she felt Chris shift slightly, a fine line of tension humming through his body as he leaned forward and braced his hands on the desktop. His green eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at the map, and she saw the faintest hint of a feral grin tug at the corners of his mouth.

            She recognized the expression as his particular brand of dangerous inspiration. _He's up to something, she thought uneasily._

            She meant to ask him just what it was he was contemplating, when the sound of hurried footsteps rushing up the boardwalk made both of them look up sharply. Chris moved quickly to the door. Mary cast a quick glance to the clock hanging on the wall and a faint blush rose to her cheeks. It was late, she realized belatedly. –Well after midnight, for they had heard the quiet murmur of voices as customers had left the Saloon for their rooms at the hotels and boarding houses only a short while before. Unfortunately, they had been so engrossed in the repairs to the press, that she had completely lost track of the time. She was suddenly grateful for the rough boards that had been hastily nailed over the broken front windows. At least it was not likely that anyone exiting the saloons at closing time would have seen her light or been able to see that she was not alone. Tongues wagged entirely too much in this town as it was.

            Chris stood quietly in the shadows of the doorway, watching and listening for a long moment. She thought he might finally ease a bit, decide it was nothing and move away when he tensed suddenly. From a ways down the boardwalk, she heard the echo of footsteps again, followed by the soft mutter of hushed voices.

            "JD," Chris called out quietly, stepping out of the doorway and onto the boardwalk, "what is it?"

            There was a thump of footsteps and the light from the Clarion's open door illuminated the figures of JD and Buck as they strode up from Miss Maggie's Hotel to join Chris. Buck cast a curious glance past Larabee's shoulder, and she saw the question in his face as he noticed her, but it was quickly masked as he looked back to Chris. "JD just came to get me. Said Inez and Nathan might need a hand over at the saloon."

            Larabee's eyes swung to the young sheriff. He was sporting a shiner, but he seemed to have bounced back quickly enough. He radiated nervous energy as he shifted uneasily next to Buck. "I met Vin and Nathan headin' back towards the livery for Nathan's stretcher and some medicines. Ezra's taken a turn for the worse. I don't know how bad it is, but Nathan's pretty worried."

            The three exchanged a silent glance. If the healer was worried, then it was very bad indeed.

            A muscle twitched in Larabee's jaw and he nodded to the two men. "I'll be over in a minute," he said quietly.

            Stepping back inside, he retrieved his hat and duster from the coat rack, and nodded towards the half-finished repairs. "I'll be back to finish that up in the morning," he promised.

            Mary nodded. "If there's anything I can do…"

            He stilled suddenly, one hand on the door knob, the other grasping his hat, his fingers worrying nervously at the brim. His voice, when he spoke, came in such a soft, rusty sound that she was not sure she heard him correctly.

            "Pray," he muttered, and closed the door tightly behind him as he left.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

            Oblivion, unfortunately, did not last long. It was sometime in the small hours of the morning when the dreams caught up to him. They were dark, tangled images, and he shrank from them, crying out in fear and pain. That was how Inez found him when she paused to check on him a few hours later.

            "How is he?" Josiah's voice was soft, yet it seemed to fill the room as nearly as his bulk filled the doorway.

            Inez looked up from her patient, worry shining in the depths of her dark eyes. "He's burning up. The fever is very high."

            Ezra twitched restlessly on the bed, muttering words that were smooth and flowing, oddly familiar, yet incoherent to her ears.

            "I think he's delirious," she said. "I can't understand a thing he is saying."

            Josiah moved closer, his ears straining to catch the words. "It sounds like French," he said at last, "—or maybe Creole. I never could tell the difference between the two."

            "What is he saying?" she wondered, reaching for the wash cloth.

            Josiah shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. My French was never very good. Nathan would be the one to ask. His old master taught him some."

            "I had no idea," Inez murmured as she began to bathe Ezra's face and body. His skin burned with the heat of a furnace.

            Josiah smiled. "Neither did Brother Ezra –'til he spouted off some fancy French saying. It was a rare expression on his face when Nathan answered him back."

            She chuckled softly. "I regret I did not see it. It is not often that one gets the best of him with words."

            "True enough," the preacher commented, reaching over to test the warmth of the gambler's brow for himself. He frowned. "Maybe I should fetch Nathan."

            Inez shook her head. "No, let him rest. Nathan is not the only one with experience in such matters. In the village where I was raised, we also saw our share of flogged men …and the misery that came with it." She smiled tightly, "I will manage."

            "You don't have to do it alone," the preacher reminded her. "What can I do to help?"

            Inez drew down the sheet to inspect the lacerations on Ezra's back. It was as she had feared. Most of the cuts were deeply red with inflammation, the worst of which oozed pus and infection. Even the mildest of wounds were colorful where the lash had turned the skin purple with bruising. She set her jaw against the shudder of revulsion that threatened to claim her. This was not a sight she had wanted to see again. She remembered too well the long hours she had spent helping her mother nurse her brother back to health after he had incurred the wrath of Don Paulo's lash. She had feared for Miguel's life then, and she feared for Ezra's now.

            She grimly studied the mess that was the gambler's back. She had little doubt that the infection was fueling the fever he was fighting. She would have to fight both at the same time. Perhaps, the Nathan's help was warranted after all.

            "We must bring the fever down," she said, "and draw out the infection." She glanced up to meet the preacher's eyes. "Bring me water –cold water—from the spring trough. Then, set another pan of water to boil on the stove. I will need to make a poultice."

            She frowned as she considered her stock of herbs. The salve had depleted her stock, and there were some she needed that she did not have. "I am out of yarrow, and I have no cinchona," she mused. "Perhaps you should go and get Nathan after all."

            Josiah quickly turned to go, but she stopped him, putting a hand on his arm. "Bring me the water first," she instructed. "We need to start bringing the fever down."

            The preacher nodded his understanding and disappeared down the hallway, his tread echoing heavily on the stairs. Ezra tossed and muttered a few more words in the silky, incomprehensible French, his face twisting in an expression that she judged to be somewhere between fear and anguish. –Not that she could be certain, for neither was an emotion that she had ever known the man to display in the presence of another. –Amusement, yes. –Anger, perhaps. –Sadness? ...Only on the rarest of occasions. But never once had she ever known him to display fear or pain, for he perceived them as weakness, and she suspected that Maude had schooled him at an early age to take these particular emotions and bury them deep.

            Taking up the wash cloth again, she rinsed in the tepid water of the basin and sponged gently at his fevered brow. He seemed to calm a bit at her touch, his incoherent ramblings easing away under the gentle caress of her hands. She caught herself smiling as she gazed down at him. How like a little boy he seemed, with the lines of tension and pain easing from his face as he slept. It was as close as she had ever seen him come to peace. How unfortunate, she thought, that he seemed to possess so little of it.

            On impulse, she stroked a stray tendril of sweat soaked hair back from his forehead. He stirred slightly in his sleep, turning his cheek into the caress as if seeking out her touch. Her breath caught. He did not wake.

            Snatching her hand away, she stood up quickly and made a pretense of straightening the bed linens, but she was all too aware of the burning in her cheeks and the warm, tingling sensation that lingered on her palm. Josiah's heavy step on the staircase signaled his return, and she opened the window and flung the tepid contents of the basin out into the street below. She returned the enameled pan to the table by the bedside and stepped back as Josiah filled it with the fresh cold water he had drawn from the spring fed trough in the cellar of the saloon.

            "I stoked the fire and set some water to boil," he said, setting down the pail. "I reckon I'll go and fetch Nathan now."

            "Tell him to bring his medicine kit," she said, "and the herbs."

            The preacher nodded and was gone without a word. Inez dipped the cloth in the icy water and began sponging again at the gambler's fevered face, working her way now down his neck and across his limbs. Her concern grew as she noticed that his skin seemed even hotter to the touch than it had before. His fever was climbing dangerously high.

            "Now is not the time to quit on me, Senor." She wrung out the cloth made warm from contact with his body and plunged it into the cold water once more.  "I still have many things to say to you about your bad mood this evening. I have a long way to go before I forgive you for comparing me to your mother." She dipped the cloth again, bathing more of his fevered skin. "And I'm not going to let you off the hook without a very big apology."

            She continued the process of dipping and sponging and dipping and wringing out the cloth, her movements almost frantic and mechanical. She barely noticed the lean shadow that appeared in the doorway.

            "Inez?"

            She looked up to see Vin Tanner standing just outside the door, concern etched on his shadowed features.

            "I ran into Josiah. He said Ez is in a bad way." His blue eyes were dark, fathomless pools in the flickering candlelight, but she could sense the unspoken question that hovered in them. _Will he die?_

            She shied from the thought, unwilling to consider the possibility as she continued to bathe the body before her. "His fever is very high," she said brusquely. "We need to bring it down."

            Dropping the cloth back into the basin, she rose and quickly crossed the room to nab the man by the arm. Alarm flashed in his eyes, but she ignored it, dragging him with her to the bedside. "Sit with him," she ordered, pushing the bounty hunter down into the chair. "I need to go downstairs and start the herbs for the poultice."

            It was quite possibly as close as she'd ever seen the laconic Texan come to outright panic. "What should I do?" he asked, his voice rising slightly above its normal pitch.

            She wrung out the rag and handed it to him. "Try to keep him cool," she said, then flicked a grim glance back towards the restless form on the bed. "And if you are on speaking terms with _Dios_,_ it would not hurt to pray."_

            Nathan and Josiah returned a few minutes later, as she was rifling through the dwindling stock of dried herbs that she had strung to dry from the dark and smoke-stained oak beams of the kitchen. She heard the heavy tread of their feet as they ascended the stairs and the creak of the floorboards above her. Nathan appeared a few minutes later, his features grim as he set his medicine bag down on the well-scrubbed kitchen table.

            "His fever's shootin' mighty high." The healer rummaged through the sack and began pulling out bits of his own supply of dried vegetation. "We're gonna have to bring his temperature down quick or it could kill him."

            Inez nibbled her lip as she selected the plants she needed from his stock and crumbled them into the boiling water. "I have been thinking of it myself," she said. "There is the spring trough in the cellar. The water is very cold."

            Nathan nodded his approval. "It's a good idea," he said. "I'll send Josiah down to clear it out. I'll take Vin and run down to the livery for my stretcher. I doubt Ezra will make it down to the cellar under his own power." He leaned over the pot she was brewing and sniffed approvingly. "Yarrow, aloe, a bit of sagebrush –that should do the trick. What else you got in there Inez?"

            She told him. He grinned. "Good thing you're so busy feeding folks. If you got tired of cookin' you could put me out of work."

            She shook her head. "No, Senor. Your job is something I would only do by necessity, not desire. There is too much pain in it."

            Nathan nodded. "True enough, Inez. True enough."

            Vin and Josiah came down, the preacher heading in the direction of the cellar while the lanky Texan followed the healer out the front door and back down the street to Nathan's clinic above the livery. She was only marginally surprised when they returned a few minutes later with not only the stretcher, but Buck and JD trailing in their wake. Chris Larabee appeared a moment later, as if drawn by the same sense that had guided the others.

            She found herself wordlessly pushed to the sidelines, watching in silent bemusement as the six men threw themselves into the treatment that she had been directing only a short half hour before. Vin and JD helped Josiah finish emptying the trough of the bottled beer that had been set to cool for the next day's business. Chris and Buck carefully bore the gambler down the three flights of stairs to the cellar on Nathan's old stretcher and lifted him into the trough where Josiah drenched the fevered body with the chilly, spring-fed water –all under the careful supervision of Nathan's watchful eye.

            Finding herself suddenly at loose ends, she took the remedy she had prepared back up to the sick room. The bed sheets were soaked and smelled of sweat, so she stripped the mattress and remade it with fresh linens. Then she sat down in the rocking chair and steeled herself to wait. She was not sure how long she sat there, but it had been long enough for the fatigue to catch up to her. She was wakened suddenly by the sound of the door thudding back against the wall as Buck and Chris once more entered the room bearing the gambler's inert form between them.

            They arranged him carefully on the bed, and as Nathan drew the sheet back over the pale, bruised shoulders, she saw that Ezra was at last resting quietly.

            "That did the trick, I think." Nathan said. "The fever's down, and I think he's out of danger for now, but we've got to get that infection under control or he'll just have to fight it again."

            She stifled the yawn she felt coming upon her and rose to pick up the tray with the bandages she had steeped in the poultice. "This should help," she said, drawing one of the sodden linens from the pan and placing it gently over the abused flesh. "It's one of my grandmother's remedies. It should help draw out the infection."

            She and Nathan busied themselves for several moments, applying the poultice liberally to the wounds before drawing the sheet up over the Southerner's shoulders once more.

            "He seems to be sleeping well," she observed, noting Ezra's deep, untroubled slumber."

            "I managed to get a little more laudanum into him," Nathan admitted. "Best if you keep a bucket next to the bed for when he wakes up in the morning. I've had to give it to him before, and it don't set real well with his stomach. –But I figured the rest he'll get now is more important than the misery he'll suffer for it later." He flashed an apologetic smile, "I might steer real wide of him tomorrow morning, though. I doubt he'll be pleasant company."

            She snorted. "He could hardly be worse." She studied the healer, his face looked tired and drawn in the lamplight, and she realized that he must not have had more than a couple hours of sleep. "You should rest, Senor."

            Nathan looked about to protest, but Josiah's voice echoed his own agreement. "She's right, brother. There's nothing more you can do here tonight."

            Nathan slowly rotated the muscles in his neck as he accepted the truth of the statement. He _was_ tired. And, he'd just given Ezra enough laudanum to knock out a horse. The fever was down and there was little doubt that the gambler would sleep through the night. Still, it went against the grain to leave a patient. –Not that he would be leaving him alone. From somewhere below, he could hear the soft splash of water and the murmur of voices and Buck and JD helped Vin restock the spring trough with the bottles of beer they had removed to make room for Ezra. No doubt they would be there a while yet, returning everything to its proper place –or at least its proper place as near as they could figure.

            The scrape of a chair leg against the wooden floor echoed up from the taproom below and was followed shortly by the clink of glass. That would be Chris. Probably finishing the bottle he and Buck had started while trying to stay out of the way of the elaborate submersion treatment. This meant, of course, that Chris would probably remain here for the duration of the night. One thing about Larabee, he liked to finish what he started –especially if it was a fight or a bottle of whiskey.

            Then there was Inez. Nathan regarded her with a critical eye. She looked every bit as tired as he felt, but he had a strong suspicion that if she slept at all this night, it would be in the old rocking chair that she had placed beside Ezra's bed. No, he decided, Josiah was right. There was nothing left for him to do but go back to his own bed above the livery and sleep.

            "I'll check on him in the morning," he said, managing not to yawn. "If there's any trouble, just come and get me."

            Bidding her a soft goodnight, he turned and left with Josiah only a few paces behind him. Descending the open staircase, they spared a brief nod for Chris as they passed, moving through the swinging doors of the saloon and into the cool night air. Once outside, he expelled a long breath and stopped. The evening was cool and the faint wind raised goose bumps on his flesh as it passed him by to chase small dust devils down the empty street. In some small corner of his mind, he was aware of his exhaustion and the dull pain that still throbbed in his arm, but it all seemed insignificant compared to the jeweled darkness of the midnight sky above. The moon was but a faint sliver of silver light, making the twinkling drops of the stars seem somehow brighter in the darkness. He cast his eyes over them silently recognizing and naming them for the old friends that they were until he settled at last upon the brightest of them …the North Star.

            It had been twenty years since he had slipped from that house in Mississippi to follow that light. Even now, all these years later, he could still feel its pull …calling him, beckoning him to follow it north to freedom. He'd been north. There hadn't been as much freedom there as it promised. There hadn't been much freedom anywhere he'd gone –except maybe here, and he knew full well that it was a tenuous, tiny thing, based more on his ties with these men than any real acceptance the citizens of the town might grant him. He looked silently to the stars, losing himself in the constellations. Was it really too much to ask? To be accepted? To simply be considered as a man, and nothing more?

            "You all right, brother?" Josiah's quiet voice pulled him from the heavens, grounding him once more in the dusty deserted street of the town.

            No. He wasn't all right. He was tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to weight his every step. He was angry. No, he was furious –furious with the men who had done this, furious with Ezra for letting them, and when it came right down to it, with himself for misjudging the Southerner so badly. Perhaps, if he'd been able to grant him even the slightest benefit of the doubt, he might not have been inclined to face that mob alone. Underneath all of this though, he was scared. He was frightened by how fast this movement was growing. He feared that this time, they might not be able to stop it. He was afraid that more people were going to die before this was over, and only a few minutes ago, he had been terrified that Ezra Standish was going to be one of them. Of all these roiling thoughts, it was only the last one that he gave voice to.

            "It was close," Nathan admitted. "I thought we were going to lose him back there."

            Ezra had thought so, too. Nathan could still feel the chill that had coursed through him as he had finally registered the gambler's barely comprehensible French.

            _Je__ regrette…_

            "You were worried." Josiah observed, not bothering to elaborate his point. He did not need to. An almost intuitive communication had developed between him and Nathan over the years. One only had to point the direction of his thoughts for the other to follow them to their logical reasoning. Nathan, as a rule, rarely exhibited fear in even the most dire of medical emergencies. One of them could be laying flat on the ground leaking blood from a dozen different places only to look into the healer's face and find reassurance and solicitous concern. –But never fear. Nathan did not believe in telegraphing his own worries to the patient for fear it would cause them more harm than good. 

            But there had been that moment, as they were levering Ezra into the water, that the gambler had gripped Josiah's hand and mumbled again in the rambling French that he had seen the healer's ebony features lighten considerably. He had grabbed Ezra by the shoulders, shaking him harshly as he'd muttered, "--Damn it, Ezra! Don't you quit on me now!"

            _Je__ regrette…_

"What was he saying?" Josiah asked.

            Nathan shook his head. It had been crazy talk, most of it. He had been talking to someone who wasn't there –his mother, perhaps—begging them not to leave him …to wait for him. It was only as they had been carrying him down the stairs that Nathan had paid enough attention to realize who that someone was. –Not his mother. –His father, a father long dead and just barely remembered. And then they had lowered him into the tub, and though the jade green eyes had been fever-bright, he had seen the total clarity in them as Ezra had gripped the preacher's hand and started to speak.

            _Mon Dieu, je regrette…_

            "What was he saying, Nathan?" Sanchez asked again, knowing that the healer had understood every word, and been terrified by it.

            "His prayers," Nathan's voice sounded dull and lifeless. "He was praying for absolution."

            The preacher's hand clapped down on his shoulder, firm and understating as he gently pushed his friend in the direction of the Livery.

            "We all are, Brother," Josiah said softly. "We all are."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

            Larabee lit up a thin black cheroot and contemplated the bottle before him. It was three quarters empty. It had been full when Buck had liberated it from the bar only an hour or so before, but he was not drunk. –Quite the opposite, in fact. He sat there in the empty taproom absorbing the tobacco smoke and the sounds of the night around him with total clarity. The slow, intermittent squeak of the rocking chair filtered down through the floorboards from Ezra's room above and Vin, Buck and JD's voices mingled softly from below as they finished restocking the beer in the spring to cool. From the open doorway, he could hear the fading crunch of footsteps in the street as Josiah and Nathan departed for a well earned rest.

            _"I thought we were going to lose him back there…"_

            Nathan's softly spoken confession had carried easily on the wind to their leader's ears, causing him to push away the drink he had just poured and reach for a smoke instead. Truth told, he had thought so too.

            He had never really had time to think about it before –the possibility of losing one of his men. Somehow, even in the midst of their closest calls there had never been time. They were always fighting, moving, going after the enemy –whoever it happened to be at that moment—and trusting in Nathan to pick up the pieces and patch them back together into a living breathing comrade when it was all over.

            But tonight, there had been no one to chase after, no one to fight. Tonight there had been time to think about it, and he hadn't much cared for the luxury of thought that time had provided. Ezra had damned near died on them and there hadn't been a thing he could do about it except to help them haul his carcass up and down the stairs and then crawl into this bottle with Buck while they waited for word. While they had waited, he had made the mistake of thinking. He had thought about what it would really mean to lose the Southerner –to lose any of them—and he didn't like the answers he came up with. It would weaken them, somehow. Make them less than what they were, and not simply in manpower, but spirit.

            He could hear Buck's booming voice rise above the other two as the trio climbed the cellar stairs. After all these years, losing Buck would damned near kill him –not to mention what it would do to the kid. He doubted either one of them would be here if it weren't for the boisterous ladies man. In the hellish years after Sarah and Adam's deaths, Buck had kept him from completely self-destructing more times than he could count. As for JD –Larabee smiled grimly—the kid wouldn't have survived the first week if Buck hadn't taken him under his wing. The end of Buck Wilmington would be the end of three men, and well he knew it.

            JD scowled and made some retort to Buck's joshing as they reached the top of the stair and entered the taproom. It wouldn't do to lose the kid, either. There was no telling who Buck was gonna take it into his head to care about, but once he did, his loyalty was complete and unswerving. He would ride into hell on Sunday for that kid, just as he would do for Larabee himself. Chris doubted that Buck would ever quite forgive himself if something happened to JD Dunne. All things considered, they'd both been damned lucky last night.

            The two walked past him, each sparing a nod in his direction as they shoved their way out of the saloon doors and into the street. Their argument continued as they parted company and disappeared out into the night. Just as Nathan and Josiah had departed in mutual introspection, so had Buck and JD returned to their good natured banter, each secure in the knowledge that the danger had passed. This left Vin standing before him, thoughtfully contemplating the diminished contents of the whiskey bottle.

            Tanner nodded to the glass of whiskey, sitting forgotten by his hand. "You gonna drink that, or watch it evaporate?"

            Larabee grinned and slid the glass over to Tanner, who dropped into the chair opposite him and put the languishing drink out of its misery. Chris contemplated the lean taciturn man for a moment. Losing Buck might kill him, but losing Tanner would damned near eviscerate him. There was a level of connection between himself and the scout that was deep, unspoken and instantaneous. He had felt it from the moment their eyes had met, that first day in the street as they'd watched the Texas cattle crew drag Nathan up the hill towards an imminent death. They'd barely spoken more than a handful of words between them as they'd strolled together up the street into what could well have been both their deaths. Buck had been his friend for years, and yet they managed to get on each others nerves more often than not. Even in their more peaceable moments, they still played hell trying to reconcile themselves to the other's way of thinking. Not so with Tanner. It rarely took more than the briefest glance to know the Texan's thoughts. Whereas Buck could rarely spend more than five minutes without feeling the need to open his trap on some subject or another, Tanner barely spoke at all. In fact, they had passed entire days in the saddle without speaking, and yet Larabee felt as if entire volumes of conversation had passed between them in their silence.

            Such a silence had fallen upon them now. Vin uncorked the bottle and refilled the glass. He seemed to have as little need of conversation as Larabee, and they sat there in the vast emptiness of the taproom, each immersed in their own thoughts.

            The floorboards creaked gently above them and Larabee's mind wandered back to the man lying insensible in the room upstairs. To the casual observer, Standish might seem like the most expendable, the least one likely to be missed. He was the outsider, not bound too closely to any one of them. There was Josiah and Nathan, their rock and their river, the calm voices of reason who centered them in the most trying times. The healer and the preacher had a natural affinity for each other to the point one was sometimes useless without the other to translate for him. It was likewise with Buck and JD, and even himself and Vin. Ezra, by contrast, was the loner. –Always circling at the periphery, never allowing anyone too close. And yet, he was the constant thread that ran through all of their lives, drawing them more tightly together.

            When it came to Nathan, Standish was the proverbial thorn in the Lion's paw. He was the black sheep that Josiah never tired of trying to herd back into the fold. He was the prankster and playmate of Buck, JD and even Vin. Without fail, he was also the regular pain in Larabee's ass. But when things were tight, and the deck stacked against them, they could always count on the enigmatic Southerner to reshuffle the cards in their favor. He smiled grimly to himself, remembering Nathan's words upon their first encounter with the gambler who'd been hustling drinks and cash from the saloon's patrons with his seemingly impressive marksmanship skills. The only skill Larabee had been impressed with at the time was the man's ability to pull of such a cheap parlor trick in a room full of men so heavily armed and sorely tempted to blow his head off.

            "_What do we need a cheater for?" Nathan had asked him, clearly unimpressed._

            Larabee had answered him with a wolfish grin.

            "_We might need one."_

And they had. He didn't like to think of how things might have ended up had there been no Ezra Standish to scheme their way out of a tight spot. They'd have ended up as fodder for that crazy confederate's cannon if the gambler hadn't decided to turn around and come riding back. Mary Travis's son would likely be dead and her husband's killers would have remained unpunished had it not been for Ezra and Maude doing what they did best. Hell, even Mary herself would not be alive if Standish hadn't been there to push her down and take the bullet –right in the very large wad of money he had been preparing to abscond with. Whether he was pulling an ace out of his sleeve, or a slingshot and a stick of dynamite out of his pocket, the Southerner had an undeniable knack for evening the odds when they most desperately needed it. No, Larabee decided, he did not much care for the thought of what might happen if they lost the man he'd come to regard as their own personal ace in the hole.

            He stubbed out the cheroot. The tobacco suddenly tasted stale and bitter in his mouth. Reaching for the other glass that Buck had left behind, he poured another drink.   –The last drink, he saw as he tipped the bottle and waited for the dregs of the amber liquid to drain from it.

            Vin slouched easily in his chair, staring blankly at the Regulator clock on the wall behind the bar. It was somewhere near to three in the morning. Tanner looked as if he could sit there for an hour or a hundred years and not feel the need to speak. It was a trait that Larabee often admired. Tonight, however, it seemed to pull at him, impelling him to voice at least a little of the thoughts that were on his mind.

            "You ever think about what might happen if we lost somebody?"

            "All the time," the tracker said honestly. He shot Chris a sideways look. "--You?"

            "Yeah," Chris replied, "but maybe not in the way that I should have."

            Vin said nothing, but Chris could feel the Texan's blue eyes trained upon him, bidding him to elaborate.

            "I always figured that if we ever came up short a man, it would be because Standish had snuck out in the middle of the night with all the valuables he could carry off from some swindle. It never occurred to me the fool might get himself killed standing for us when he should have had the sense to run."

            Vin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ezra wasn't the only one with a history of running out on Larabee in the middle of a crisis. It was a mark of their friendship that he and Chris had managed to put the incident behind them. Still, it had taken time after their return from the Wagon Train before things between him and the gunman had returned to an even keel. He sensed this particular indiscretion was something Larabee did not easily forgive.

            "It's bound to happen someday," he said. "Considering the amount of lead we've dodged the last couple years, we've all been luckier than any one of us has a right to be."

            He glanced at Chris out of the corner of his eye. The gunman was staring moodily into the shot he had poured for himself, but as yet had made no move to drink it. He studied the older man carefully, reading his body language as easily as deer tracks in fresh snow, skillfully threading around the words that had been spoken to divine what was really weighing on the his friend's mind. Sometimes with Larabee, it was all in what he didn't say.

            "You're not sure we can stop them," Vin guessed.

            Chris reached suddenly for the drink, tossing it down quickly, and the Texan knew that his observation had struck to the heart of the matter.

            "No," Larabee said at last. His voice was slightly rough from the alcohol. He swiveled his gray-green gaze upon Vin. "You ever hunt wolves?"

            The tracker felt a small chill race through him at the sudden, unexpected question. It reminded him somehow of another conversation in another saloon about another enemy that Larabee had been uncertain he could best.

            _"Back when I was ranchin' a mountain lion got after my stock…"_

            Leave it to Larabee, Vin thought, to go hunting after things like mountain lions and wolves. Aside from his brief and unsuccessful attempt at bounty hunting, he had preferred to stalk creatures that weren't so likely to be stalking him. He slowly shook his head.

            "Can't say as I have," he admitted.

            Chris set his empty glass carefully back down on the table, his gaze fixed on the play of the lamplight sparking through the cut glass as he spun it between his fingers.

            "You can't track 'em," he said darkly. "They're like ghosts. One minute they're there. The next, they've just …vanished. But you can feel them all around you. You can feel their eyes watching you from somewhere just beyond your fire. And at night, if the moon's full, you can hear them." He shook his head, just barely suppressing a shiver. "It'd make the blood freeze in your veins if the cold hadn't done it already."

            "They hunt in packs," he said, remembering. "They're ruthless and damned efficient. Each one has a job and they work as a team. They close you in, wear you out and pull you down before you even know what hit you. –Hell, you never even see it coming."

            His smile faded and he looked directly at Vin, the green of his eyes shifting to storm gray. "I got a feeling these guys are like that. You can track 'em for days and never catch so much as a glimpse of 'em. But the minute you turn your back, they'll jump out and bite you in the ass."

            "Sounds like you've been up close and personal," Vin said, shooting Larabee searching look.

            Chris cocked his head slightly and flashed the Texan a feral grin. "Too damned close," he admitted.

            His gaze returned to the empty glass, spinning restlessly between his fingers. "It was the second winter after I came out here, before I met Sarah, --not long after I'd first hooked up with Buck. We were ridin' the grub line, and we took a job hunting wolves that had gotten after some of the ranchers' cattle."

            Larabee smiled absently, but there was obviously no real humor in the memory. His gaze was vacant and already staring back to that long ago time. "Buck and I rode out with some old dried up piece of saddle leather named Cheyenne Jack. We were pushin' about a dozen head of the oldest, scrawniest cows we could find for bait. …It was along about dusk and I had just moved a few of the cows out in the clear to graze. Buck and Jack were up in the hills on either side with rifles, just lying quiet and waiting. I was riding back to join them."

            He shook his head. "It was just pure luck I happened to spot the ripples in the grass. I figured I could make it. I had a good horse, a nice blood bay stud I'd brought with me from Indiana. He was built lean and leggy –kinda like your Peso horse." The older man paused, regret shading his features. "They hamstrung him before we got a hundred and fifty yards. We went down shootin' and I don't remember much but fightin' off fur and teeth until Buck and Jack opened up with the rifles."

            "The horse and the cows were a total loss. I walked away from it with four pelts and this…" He flashed a humorless grin and pushed back his shirt cuff to reveal a bit of a long scar that Vin had always assumed he'd earned at the end of somebody's knife. "So I suppose it wasn't a complete failure."

            Vin studied him with wry amusement. "You ever get any better at it?"

            Larabee's grin broadened. "Don't know as that I'd go that far, but at least the wolves didn't either. We rode out of there come spring with sixty pelts."

            Vin's blue eyes twinkled with humor, and then sobered as he circled his mind back to the original point of the conversation. "Well," he said at last, "at least you have an idea of how to go about the job. –What do you reckon they're after?"

            Larabee rolled the glass between his palms. "Mary happened to look at a map and noticed there's a pattern to the attacks on the homesteaders.  She's got a theory that this might be part of a land grab for a new spur line the railroad is talking about building from Ridge City to Eagle Bend." Chris raised his eyes to meet Vin's. "I think she may be on to something."

            Vin nodded. "Stands to reason," he agreed. "If the railroad goes through, that land will be worth a lot of money. A body goes about offerin' to buy it up a forehand then people will start to wonder why. –And black homesteaders are easy pickings. Nobody concerns themselves overmuch with their troubles."

            "Not like they would with white folks," Larabee agreed. "Burn out a few blacks and Mexicans, everybody looks the other way. Attack a couple of white families and the whole damned territory would be in an uproar."

            It was an ugly truth, but the truth nonetheless. 

Vin studied the scuffed and dusty toe of his boot. "What are you plannin' to use as bait?" He was fairly certain he didn't really want to know the answer to this particular question, but there it was.

Larabee's fingers stilled on the glass they had been twirling. "Josiah's riding out to the Seminole Village tomorrow." 

He let the suggestion hang unspoken between them. His face was impassive, but Vin detected the faintest note of uncertainty in Larabee's voice, and knew that the older man was not entirely reconciled with the course of action he had identified. –Frankly, neither was he.

"Nathan will be pissed," Vin observed.

"Yeah," Chris agreed quietly.

"Think they'll help?"

Larabee shook his head. "I don't know."

It was late. Too late, Vin thought, to try to think about the consequences of what Chris was contemplating. He rose to his feet and stretched, then stared down at the other man with a mixture of amusement and foreboding.

_Christ. Mountain lions and wolves …what would he decide to take on next?_

"Chris?"

Larabee looked up, his expression questioning.

Tanner grinned at him. "Do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Next time we go hunting, let me pick the game."

The gunman's face was implacable, but Vin could see the spark of Irish deviltry burning in the green of his eyes. "What do you wanna shoot, cowboy?"

"Bunny rabbits," Vin deadpanned.

Larabee shook his head regretfully. "They'll eat you alive." 


	13. Chapter 13

**The Brotherhood**

**By Lady Chal**

(Disclaimers, etc. in Chapter 1)

**Chapter Thirteen**

            She had the uneasy sensation that she was being watched. Inez started as she woke suddenly to stare into the burning intensity of Chris Larabee's storm green eyes, only few scant inches from her own. There was a ready smile upon his features, but his expression was unreadable as he pinned her with his gaze. She was suddenly reminded of Senora Potter's cat as it pounced upon the sparrows it caught in the alley behind the storefronts. She felt very much like one of those sparrows. 

            She knew little about him --save for what she overheard in conversation between Ezra and the others, or had observed on her own. He was a quiet man, and kept mostly to himself. However, she knew he sometimes could be cajoled into companionable conversation by Vin or Buck –or, on occasion—by Senora Travis.

            Many thought him to be cold and severe, but she knew that in reality, he smiled often and easily. –It was just that the smile didn't always reach his eyes. She had never really spoken with him other than to take his order in the saloon below, and other than a quiet word of thanks when she set a drink before him, he had paid her as little notice as the pot bellied stove in the corner. Therefore, she was surprised –and more than a little disconcerted—to find him studying her so closely now.

            "You should get some sleep, Inez." His voice was quiet and surprisingly gentle for a man capable of such violence, and she thought she detected the merest softening in his hardened features.

            She rose quickly from the rocker, needing to feel on even footing with the intense gunfighter, and glanced down at Ezra. He was sleeping deeply now, his breathing more steady and his skin no longer flushed with fever. Still, she was reluctant to leave him. Shortly after Nathan and Josiah had left, she had risen from her chair to turn down the lamp and had felt something catch at her skirt as she'd moved away. She had looked down to see the worn and faded fabric snared tightly in the gambler's slender fingers. His jade-colored eyes were upon her, the pupils black and dilated from the effects of the laudanum.

            "Stay," he had mumbled, his eyes pleading with her.

            She had stayed.

            She wasn't entirely certain why she had done it. She wasn't even certain if the request had been addressed to her directly or to some figment of his hallucinations, but she had stayed. Even if she wasn't really sure who Ezra thought he was talking to, the intent behind the request was clear. He had not wanted to be alone. He needed to know that someone was there, and that was why she had stayed. No one had needed her in a long time. –Wanted her, perhaps, but not needed. She had not realized how much she craved it. It was a good feeling, a useful feeling, and she did not want to give it up quite yet …but she was so tired.

            Larabee must have seen the exhaustion in her face, for he laid his hand lightly upon her arm, just above the elbow in a touch that was all at once a combination of strength and gentleness –yet not too familiar. "You're dead on your feet," he said quietly. "Get some sleep. I'll sit with him a spell."

            She nodded then, sensing that he was not about to give in upon this matter. Reaching down, she brushed Ezra's forehead with the back of her hand. –Just to check, she told herself. He was still warm, but not the raging furnace he had been. Satisfied that he would be all right, she bid a soft good night to Chris and left. As she closed the door behind her, she spared a quick glance over her shoulder. The lean blonde man had already seated himself in a rocker beside the bed. Hands clasped and elbows braced, he bent forward to study the battered figure before him. He looked as if he might be capable of holding that pose until judgment day. 

Moving towards the head of the stairs, she glanced down over the railing to the taproom and stopped. The windows were shuttered. The heavy double doors of the saloon were closed and barred. All of the lamps had been extinguished, save the small finger lamp left burning on the table at the top of the stairs. He had locked up. She could scarcely believe it. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she tried to picture the formidable gunman doing something as menial as closing the saloon for the night. She could not quite grasp the image, but she knew it must have been, for the evidence was clearly before her eyes. Shaking her head in amazement, she picked up the lamp he had left for her. Then she made her way down the long hallway to her rooms at the back of the building.

***

Ezra woke to the unmerciful agony of the morning sun drumming through his eyelids. The angry red light that filtered through to the back of his head seemed to throb and pulse, working its way down the base of his neck to his stomach, which suddenly lurched, rolled and heaved. He tasted the bile in the back of his throat and knew that there would be no hope of holding it down. Clenching his teeth, he scrambled towards the edge of the bed, praying that the chamber pot would be somewhere in reach.

To his surprise, he was presented almost immediately with the welcome sight of a tin bucket into which he retched, quite thoroughly, for several long moments. When his stomach finally stopped convulsing, he closed his eyes and rested his head wearily for a moment on the edge of the mattress. His head felt as if it were wrapped in ten pounds of cotton. …Laudanum, he thought ruefully. Damn, Nathan! He knew full well what that deplorable substance did to him!

"Feel better?" The voice that questioned him was quiet, amused and most definitely not that of Inez. The gambler's eyes flew open to take in the grinning features of Chris Larabee, dark with the stubble of unshorn beard but still looking better than he felt himself.

"Mr. Larabee," he croaked, content to remain limp as a rag doll at the edge of the mattress. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Just makin' sure you weren't gonna run out on me again." Larabee's face was impassive, but his eyes held an intensity of some unnamed emotion held well in check.

Rising from the rocking chair, he poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bureau and handed it to Ezra. The gambler took a mouthful and spat it out into the bucket, rinsing his palate of the foul tasting bile. He finished the rest of the glass, his throat slightly raw from the acid, and handed the glass back to Chris.

"I assure you, Mr. Larabee," he sighed, dragging himself back to the haven of his pillow, "I am definitely not considering any travel plans at this juncture in time."

Chris snorted. "We nearly had to make 'em for you. You scared the hell out of Nathan last night. –Out of all of us, for that matter."

Ezra rolled an eye towards their leader. He vaguely remembered some particularly vivid hallucinations. It had been years since he had dreamed of his father. "That bad, was it?" he murmured.

Larabee shrugged. "Josiah was about ready to write your eulogy."

This evoked a smile from the gambler. "I regret that he did not complete it. A man often wonders what others will say upon the event of his passing."

Larabee grinned. "I would have said you were a colossal pain in the ass, but at least you could fight."

"How poetic," Ezra said dryly. "I must consider it for my epitaph."

Chris set the empty water glass down on the wash stand and paused for a moment, contemplating his reflection in the oval frame of the swinging shaving mirror that Ezra kept there. "We've been trackin' after the men who jumped you and Nathan," he said without preamble. "You weren't the only ones they've gone after. They've been hitting a bunch of homesteads north of here and either side of Eagle Bend."

"Given the tactics they have chosen to employ, would I be correct in surmising that all of the unfortunates were colored?"

Chris nodded. "You would."

Silence reigned for a moment as each man absorbed the implications of this.

"Regrettable," Ezra said at last. "If their prowess in recruitment is half as successful as reported, I've little doubt that there will be a run on bed linens in this part of the country."

Moving to the foot of the bed, Chris grasped the brass railing and shot Ezra a dark look. "I want it stopped."

Ezra arched one dark auburn brow. "You do have high aspirations, Mr. Larabee. These are not your run-of-the-mill ruffians that we are dealing with. They are well organized, intensely secretive and extremely dangerous as a result."

Chris nodded. "I know. And they aren't the kind of men who will be easy to find.  They won't come out unless they have good reason."

"You intend to give them a reason?"

Chris shrugged. "Something like that."

"And so you've come to me," the gambler said pointedly.

"Yes."

"I see." Ezra nodded calmly, but the expression in his eyes seemed to cool a few degrees. "Of course I can see why you would desire my insight upon the matter." He mused, a hint of acid creeping into his tone. "Who else among us would have the proper perspective to understand what motivates such deplorable individuals?"

Larabee snapped back as if struck. "Damn it, Ezra! –That's not what I meant!"

The gambler arched a disbelieving brow. "Really, Mr. Larabee, I find that hard to believe." 

Larabee's jaw tightened in anger and the vein at his forehead began to throb as he struggled to contain his frustration. "All right," he said quietly, "I'll admit you've given me cause to wonder.  –A man doesn't come to know his way around an artillery piece the way you do just by playin' cards all day."

"Yet you've never asked."

"No," Larabee agreed, offering a small, tight smile. "But then neither have you," he added, confirming one of Ezra's long-held suspicions about the gunman's spotty past. Larabee had always struck him as a natural born leader, but there was something about the man's air that suggested he was used to commanding men, rather than merely supervising them.

Chris snagged his hat off the end of Ezra's bed post with a sharp, swift movement. "Far as I'm concerned, it was none of my business." The gray green eyes flashed, "—None of yours, either. Who we were and what we did doesn't have a damned thing to do with the here and now."

Larabee jammed the hat on his head and shot a glare at the Southerner. "What _is my business, is the safety of this town and these people." Gripping the polished brass foot rail tightly in both hands, he leaned menacingly over the foot of Standish's bed. "But you are right about one thing, Standish. –I do think you are the only one of us who can figure these guys."_

Chris saw the flare of anger in the gambler's eyes, but made no attempt at apology.  "It's what you do best, Ezra," Chris said quietly. "You read people like JD reads those damned dime novels. You get inside their heads and you use it against them. –Now I don't give a damn about what side of the war you were on. All I care about is stopping these bastards. Whether or not you help us is entirely up to you."

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked towards the door. As he moved, he bit down on his seething temper and wondered why he'd bothered to consult Standish in the first place. He should have known better. The man was a first class pain in the ass even on a good day, and this clearly, was not one of those.

The soft voice caught him even as his hand closed upon the door knob.

"It's about power," Ezra said at last, his voice little more than a murmur. "People make the mistake of thinking it's about hatred –and that is part of it—but it's merely the bloom that they cultivate. The stem –the root of it—is power."

He heard a long, painful intake of breath and turned to find the gambler's eyes not upon him, but upon some fixed and distant point that only Standish seemed able to see. Chris idly recognized it as the same expression, troubled and reflective, that had been crossing Nathan's features too frequently as of late. Slowly, he moved back to the foot of the bed as the gambler droned on, his voice dispassionate.

"The men you are looking for were kings once. The South was an aristocracy, and the plantation a castle. Even the poorest white dirt farmer could hold up his head because even he was better than the slave. The war took that from them, and what the war didn't take, the Reconstruction did."

Chris shook his head. "If they think they are going to be able to bring it back this way, they're mistaken. That way of life is gone forever."

Ezra's smile was filled with ominous understanding as his gaze finally swung back to Chris. "Oh, they are fully aware of that, Mr. Larabee. That is what makes them so dangerous. These are men with nothing left to lose. The question is what is there for them to gain?"

"Land," Larabee replied. "There's been talk of the railroad adding another spur line from Ridge City down to Eagle Bend. Mary thinks they might have been runnin' out the black homesteaders so they could buy out their claims for little or nothing and sell it to the railroad."

"A profitable incentive," the gambler murmured. "Especially if they are correct in their assumptions as to the exact route the railroad will take."

"I think they are," Larabee replied. "From what I've heard about Leon McAllister, he's well connected enough to get a hold of that kind of information."

The Southerner's expression sharpened, and Larabee knew he had struck a chord.

"McAllister," Ezra muttered softly. "Would that be the same Leon McAllister who was making a bid for Territorial Governor?"

"The same." Chris affirmed.

Standish smiled coldly. "Then you certainly have your work cut out for you, Mr. Larabee. McAllister is not a man likely to risk dirtying his hands with so trivial a matter. He prefers to have other, more expendable individuals carry out his bidding."

"You know him?"

"In a manner of speaking," the gambler said vaguely. He turned an interested eye upon Larabee. "How, pray tell, do you intend to draw them out?"

Chris laid out in a few, brief sentences the rough plan that was starting to form in his mind. The gambler listened intently, his weary green eyes calculating the shifts in odds with every word.

"It's risky," Standish said at last, "but it's the only likely scenario that I can see attracting their attention with any degree of success." He paused. "I trust you've spoken with the homesteaders that were attacked?"

Chris shook his head. "No one left to talk to. They're all dead except for Mrs. Lincoln."

"Doubtless another error their leader will not appreciate." Ezra said dryly. "Has anyone spoken to her?"

Chris nodded. "We did. --Questioned her about the attack. She told us what happened."

Ezra shook his head impatiently. "No," he said shortly, "I mean has anyone spoken to her about her place?"

Chris shook his head. "Not yet," he admitted, "it only just occurred to me last night."

"Well, it will certainly have occurred to them as well," Ezra said. "I would not be surprised if someone from their contingent comes to make her an offer upon it. You might want to consider beating them to the punch."

Larabee nodded thoughtfully. "That would get their attention," he allowed.

"Indeed," Ezra sighed and rolled his eyes toward Chris. "Even if this works, you understand that they will likely have us outnumbered. There is no telling how many men McAllister may have recruited to his cause. There could be dozens of them lurking right under our noses and we wouldn't even know it."

"All the more reason to stop it now," Larabee replied.

"Still," Ezra sighed. "It will require more manpower than we possess –and a good deal of preparation."

"I've thought of that, too." Larabee reminded him.

"Yes," Ezra mused. "Do you really think they will agree?"  
            Chris shrugged. "Only way to find out is to ask."

The gambler hesitated, his gaze bouncing off of Larabee's. "You do realize, of course, that Nathan will be pissed."

Larabee nodded. "I know."

Ezra grinned. "Well," he said at last, "Better you than me. It should make for a refreshing change."

He sank wearily back down onto the pillow, his eyes closing almost of their own accord. By the time Chris reached the door, the gambler was already asleep.

***

Noticing that Inez had not yet risen, Chris took care to keep his step light as he made his way down the open staircase to the taproom. He had locked up the night before, but the bottle and the glasses were still left upon the table and he took them with him to the bar, placing them quietly in the dry sink before continuing on to the kitchen. He let himself out the back door, taking care to close it softly, and wandered down to the back street for a block or so. It was still early morning, but a few early risers were already starting their day along the ragtag block that composed the Chinese laundry, and they bowed politely to him as he went. He returned the greeting with a brief nod, and then cut up the side street between the Undertaker's parlor and the Gem Hotel. 

He avoided the boardwalk, instead choosing to stride down the quiet, dusty street as he passed the Gem, the vacant storefront, and Bucklin's store to cut across to the gray little church that stood at odd angles to the street. The building had looked dilapidated and forlorn when they had first come here, nearly two years ago. It was still a bit dilapidated, but no longer forlorn. Instead, like the man who occupied it, the church seemed determined to persevere. He eyed a few bright, unpainted boards of new siding that clad the peak of one gable, and wondered where Josiah had gotten the money for it. Probably from either Mary or Gloria Potter, he decided. Both women were well known for their charity, and Mary had told him that the storekeeper's widow had been casting an interested eye towards the preacher as of late.

A small curl of smoke was rising from the chimney near the back of the building, signaling that the Church's lone occupant was indeed up and about. Chris found the preacher engaged as so many others did, standing behind his pulpit as he poured over some arcane passage from the worn bible in his hands. The soft click of the door as he closed it behind him announced the gunslinger's presence.

"Good morning, brother," Josiah said, not bothering to look up from his bible.

Chris strode slowly up the aisle, trying to ignore the sense of discomfort that pursued him with every step. He knew what it was. It was the nagging little voice inside him that whispered he was not ready to be in this place. He was not worthy of it.

As he stood there, warmed by the sunlight that glowed from the numerous windows, he clenched his teeth and fought back the heaviness that seemed to settle in his chest. He had never been a churchgoing man, though he had gone with Sarah and Adam on rare occasions when a circuit rider provided services in Eagle Bend. He hadn't been inside one since. Still, he did not have the luxury of seeking Josiah out in another place and time. He pushed the discomfort back, and focused on the preacher.

Josiah finished the passage he had been studying from the morning's sermon, and carefully marked it with a bit of worn ribbon. Setting the book aside, he stepped away from the pulpit and regarded Larabee with a placid, patient eye.

"It is a rare pleasure to see you in God's House, Brother Larabee," the preacher said, "but something tells me you are not here to bear witness or debate the scriptures."

Chris nodded to the saddlebags and blanket roll stowed neatly along the wall behind the curtain where Josiah slept. "I see you're ready to leave."

Josiah nodded and walked over to the small pot bellied stove where a battered pot of coffee boiled. "As soon as morning services are over," he said, reaching for the two tin cups that hung behind the stove. He pitched one to Chris, and then poured coffee for each of them. Leading Chris behind the brightly colored woven blanket that served as his makeshift quarters, furnished with only a cot, a trunk and a chair, he motioned for him to sit down.

Chris took a seat on the trunk, and sipped at the coffee. It was hot and bracing.

"I've got the feeling there's something else you want me to do besides warn the Village about McAllister's men," Josiah said.

Larabee smiled wryly. "As a matter of fact, I do." Digging into the pocket of his jeans, he extracted the five dollar gold piece that had been the bulk of his week's wages and handed it to Josiah.

"Give that to Tastanagi. --Tell him I've got a business proposition."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Brotherhood of Hate**

**Chapter Fourteen**

            The slim, sallow faced man in the tweed suit paused just outside the tall double doors of the Imperial Hotel and surveyed his reflection in the dusty window of the alcove. Removing his derby, he ran a hand through his brown hair and adjusted his bow tie with small, nervous movements. The transparent image of his own muddy brown eyes stared back at him and the narrow mouth thinned even more as he judged his appearance. With an expression that seemed to suggest resignation rather than satisfaction, he tucked the derby under his arm and stepped inside.

            The Imperial was the largest hotel in Ridge City, occupying most of a city block. It offered 35 rooms in all, most of which were regularly filled thanks to the influx of business and travelers brought by the railroad. In addition to its size, it also boasted steam heat, indoor plumbing, a well stocked tavern and the best restaurant in town. It was the place to see and be seen and under any other circumstances George Tuttle would have greeted an invitation to dine here with great anticipation.

            On this particular occasion, however, his appetite had all but abandoned him. His stomach had been constricting itself into a series of coils and knots ever since he had been forced to send the telegram to Eagle Bend yesterday afternoon. He had not expected McAllister to arrive so soon. The stage wasn't due in until tomorrow, and the missive from the Imperial had been delivered to him at the bank this morning, which meant that McAllister must have rented a horse and ridden most of the night to get here. That, he decided, was not good news. –Not good news at all. Clearly, Mr. McAllister was not going to be happy about the situation.

            Making his way to the ornately carved register desk, Tuttle gave his name to the man in the neat red uniform jacket trimmed with a healthy measure of gold braid. The clerk nodded smartly.

            "Of course, sir. Mr. McAllister asks that you join him for drinks in the Gentleman's Lounge."

            Tuttle turned without comment and pushed his way through the door to his left. The Imperial's drinking establishment featured a more traditional Tavern at the front, with a massive oak bar that ran the length of the small room. A few tables and chairs were scattered about, positioned along the walls and in front of the half curtained front windows and the door that opened out onto the street. At the opposite end of the room, just past the end of the bar, was a second pair of large double doors that led to the Gentlemen's Lounge and was reserved only for the hotel's special guests who preferred to take their libations away from the prying eyes of those who might wander in from the street.

            The lounge was a small, well appointed room, with a small scattering of tables and chairs, a massive fire place, flanked by two tall book cases well stocked with impressive looking leather bound books and two large leather chairs that had been drawn invitingly close to the fire. A low table was nestled between the chairs, complete with a whiskey decanter, two cut crystal glasses, a pitcher of water, and a humidor. Seated in one of the chairs was Leon McAllister, a fine plume of cigar smoke slowly wreathing about his head.

            "Have a seat, Mr. Tuttle," McAllister instructed, waving to the other chair. Tuttle complied and took a seat, perching cautiously upon the edge of the large, overstuffed cushion.

            McAllister tilted his head towards the decanter. "Would you like a drink?"

            Tuttle fidgeted with the brim of his hat before finally placing it on the arm of his chair and resting his hands on his knees, away from the temptation. "No sir, but thank you. I refrain from alcohol during working hours. I prefer to keep my head clear for the numbers."

            McAllister took a measured puff of his cigar and nodded his understanding. "You're a cautious man, George. I like that in the people who handle my money. Your wise decision to wire me immediately is evidence of that. Other men would not have shown such judgment in the matter, or perhaps tried to take things into their own hands."

            Tuttle eased somewhat. Clearly, McAllister was referring to Detweiler. He had not personally attended the meeting of the higher members of the enclave that had been held in Eagle Bend, but he had heard about it. Detweiler had bungled the entire operation, starting with the failure to kill the old Lincoln woman and ending with his altercation with those men from Four Corners and the disastrous decision to hit them at Randall's station. Now the whole damned countryside was up in arms about it, and that pack of ruffians from Four Corners was turning over every rock in the territory looking for Detweiler and the other members of the movement. Perhaps, Tuttle thought, this would be one of those rare occasions where someone didn't shoot the messenger.

            All hope of that was rapidly extinguished ash McAllister fixed him with a hard eyed glare. "Unfortunately George, I can't help but wonder how such a _careful man could let something like this happen. –How in the __hell did a Territorial Judge come to be snooping through our accounts!"_

            Tuttle felt his face heat and knew that all hope of maintaining his composure was likely shot to hell. Still, he swallowed the bile that was churning in the back of his throat and forced himself to meet McAllister's cold eyed stare. "He was following a bank draft from Detweiler. He traced it back to the bank."

            "How did he get Detweiler's name?" McAllister snapped, clearly angry at this. Anonymity was the key to maintaining their fearful power.

            "Ask Detweiler," Tuttle said quickly. "All I know is that Travis knew his name and found a record of one of his bank drafts somewhere. He followed it back to the bank."

            "And you didn't throw him off the trail?" McAllister asked, clearly displeased at this failure.

            "I would have," Tuttle said quickly, "if he had spoken to me. But he went directly to Kemp."

            McAllister nodded. Isaac Kemp was the President of the Bank, and as of yet, not a part of their organization.

            "The next thing I know," Tuttle continued, "Kemp's pulling out the ledger books and going over Detweiler's account with a fine tooth comb. They went through every deposit for the last eleven months."

            "I thought you were going to make sure that the bank transactions between our representatives were untraceable!"

            "I'm doing what I can!" Tuttle snapped, "But I don't have access to all the books, only the ones that we are currently using! Detweiler was banking here for months before you recruited me. We've filled two ledgers since then, and I don't have access to those books, Kemp keeps them locked up in his personal safe." Tuttle darted a nervous look about the room and lowered his voice even further. "Even if I could get to those books, what could I do about it? I'm not a forger. Kemp would know they'd been doctored."

            McAllister sighed heavily. Tuttle clearly was not a mind for tactics and subterfuge. Even if he had simply removed and destroyed the pertinent pages from the old ledgers, it would have been better than nothing. True, Kemp would have known that the books had been tampered with, and that it was an inside job, but without the missing pages, he would never have known exactly what was happening. It was his burden, he decided, to be surrounded by small minded men, lacking in vision. But what was done, was done. There was nothing to do know, but go forward.

            "Very well," he said at last taking another puff of the cigar. "There's nothing to be done about it now. We'll simply have to take extra measures to see to the Travis situation. –In the meantime, I do have a small errand for you, George. There is still the matter of the Lincoln place to be attended to. With Mrs. Lincoln being in such poor health, I doubt she will be able to keep the place herself. Perhaps you might be good enough to make her an offer? Buy her out of her mortgage?"

            "And if she refuses?"

            McAllister smiled coolly. "You're an intelligent and educated man, George. And you do have a way with accounts and legal documents. I'm sure you'll think of something."

            "Of course," Tuttle said, regaining some of his composure. Here, at least, was a problem that he knew how to handle. He rose to his feet. "I'll see to it right away, sir."

            "Thank you, George; I knew I could count on you."

            McAllister watched as the banker darted out of the lounge, through the pub and back into the street. Then he downed the last of his brandy, and finished it off with another deep draw upon his cigar. He really rather wished that Detweiler had not been so ambitious in tangling with the men from Four Corners. They were going to be trouble. He could feel it. 

Chris Larabee's name was well known throughout these parts. The man was as ruthless as he was deadly. Once he set his sights on his foe, he was relentless. Judging from what he had heard about Larabee's past, McAllister suspected the man was effective in a fight because he was fearless. Chris Larabee simply didn't give a damn as to whether he lived or died, but fixed his purpose on one single-minded objective: taking out his enemy. Together with the six men who surrounded him, McAllister had the uneasy feeling that Larabee and his men might well prove to be far more trouble than Detweiler anticipated.

            Setting down his empty glass, he pondered more upon the situation. It did not help that the seven men had the full support of a territorial Judge. Were they simple vigilantes, it would be a simple matter to undermine their standing with the local towns and governments. Unfortunately, these men were much harder to pin down. They were not sworn law officers, as such, but they worked for the law and answered directly to the man known popularly through these parts as the hanging Judge. In fact, it was said that Orrin Travis was quite possibly the only man that Chris Larabee saw fit to answer to.

            McAllister paused as the implications of this sank upon him. Perhaps they were going about this from the wrong direction. He had learned long ago that if you wanted results, you had to go directly to the top. To tangle with Larabee right now might cause more trouble than he wanted. While the raids were meant to draw attention away from their real activity, they didn't want to call too much attention to their activities for fear the ultimate plan would be revealed and ruined. To take on seven deadly men would be bloody, and ultimately could pose far more trouble than it was worth. –But to take out one man might be different story all together. He took one last puff of the dwindling cigar and stubbed it out. There was no need to act as yet. Aside from sniffing around and asking questions, Larabee had done nothing that merited action. –But when he did, Leon McAllister intended to be ready for it. He would have Detweiler watch Four Corners …and watch Larabee.

***

            "Goin' somewhere?" Tanner's voice, easy and mildly curious interrupted Chris's concentration as he swung his bedroll behind the cantle of his saddle and began to secure it with the saddle strings.

            Larabee did not bother to look up, but busied himself with tying the heavy roll of canvas and wool to the saddle. "Yep," he said tersely, placing a hand on Job's hip and stepping around to the other side of the horse to complete the job.

            "Gone for long?"

            "Day or two," Chris replied, repeating the procedure and reaching for his canteen which he tied to his pommel.

            Tanner seemed to meditate upon this a moment. "Want company?" he asked at last.

            "Nope," Chris replied and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Could use someone to ride over and check on my stock, though."

            Vin nodded quickly. "I reckon I can see to that. Anything else?"

            Chris paused to think this over and finally nodded. Reaching into his saddle bag, he took out a small linen tobacco pouch and tossed it to the tracker. Vin caught it reflexively and was surprised at its weight and the soft, tell-tale clink of metal. It was money, he realized. It felt like most of a month's wages. He was surprised. He hadn't realized how much Chris had managed to put away over the last few months. But on the other hand, he supposed that with Larabee spending more and more time on his claim out of town, he wasn't spending nearly so much of his meager earnings on whiskey.

            "Give that to Mary," Chris instructed. "Tell her to order whatever she needs to get the newspaper up and running again. If there's anything left over, tell her she can hold it for me until I get back."

            "What do you want me to tell the others?"

            Chris shrugged. "Keep their eyes open. I'll be back before Josiah, and I doubt Standish will even notice. Although you might tell Buck that when he's through molly coddlin' the Kid he could help you an' Nathan get Mary's place fixed back up."

            He swung up into the saddle, and Tanner put a hand out on the horse's neck staying him a moment longer. Concern was written in the Texan's blue eyes, though Chris could see he was trying hard not to press the issue.

            "Mind tellin' me what you're up to?" Tanner asked softly.

            Larabee shot him a flinty smile. "I thought I'd ride over to Eagle Bend and stir the pot a mite."

***

            He had cut through the thick grove of cottonwoods and crossed the thin stream of Little Spring Creek when Job stopped suddenly and drew a deep breath. The stallion pricked his ears forward and let out a heavy snort and bobbed his head, pulling at the bit eagerly as he recognized the familiar path. Chris let him have his head, a grim look settling in his eyes as he slowed the animal's eager gait. 

Job had been foaled on this land. He'd been a half-broken yearling when Chris had led him away from the smoldering ruins, fully intending to sell him to the first buyer that came along and drink the profits. He would have done it, too, if it hadn't been for Buck. The black colt had been Adam's pet, and in the end Wilmington had ended up taking the animal himself, rather than letting Larabee sell him to a stranger. The next time he'd seen either one of them, he'd been lying face down in a ditch beside the body of his mount. He'd been riding from Purgatorio, half drunk in the dark when the dun had made a misstep coming down the gully and snapped its foreleg. He'd had to shoot it. He was a two day ride from the nearest settlement with no mount and no water. He had been laying there, finishing off the last of a bottle of rock-gut whiskey and seriously considering a bullet for himself when a shadow had suddenly fallen across his burnt and peeling face. He'd opened his eyes and blearily looked up into the dark muzzle of Buck Wilmington's mare standing over him. Glancing back to the ground, he had counted eight legs –four gray and four black, and realized that Buck had come with two horses. Few words had been exchanged between them as Buck had stripped the saddle from the dun's body and tossed it onto the back of the black, now fully grown and presumably broken. In fact, he couldn't recall Buck saying anything at all until that last moment, when he'd hooked an extra canteen over Chris's saddle and tossed him the reins to the black.

"Try not to kill this one," Buck had grunted, "You're running out of horses."

Then, without another word, he had mounted the gray and ridden away. Chris hadn't seen him again for nearly a year and a half. 

In the hazy years of wandering that had followed between the fire and their arrival in Four Corners, there had been no stable, lot or pasture that he'd lingered in long enough to become accustomed to. If horses really had been the dumb animals most people thought they were, then the black horse should have forgotten long before now. But Chris had worked with horses long enough to know better and this was only one more bit of painful proof to add to his argument. After all the years, and all the wandering, Job still knew the way home.

            He saw the chimney first, standing naked and forlorn against the sky. Time and the elements had washed away some of the soot and scorched marks from the stones, but it was still darkened in places where the fire had burned the hottest. Chris drew the horse up in the shade of the large cottonwood and studied it for a long moment. There had been a time when he could not bear to look upon the place. –Not sober, anyways. He vaguely recalled one or two drunken sojourns when he'd had enough whiskey in him and enough in the saddlebags to see him through the experience. It had usually happened when he'd been on a bender for several days and his drunken ramblings had led him a little too closely to Eagle Bend. He looked sourly at the horse. Job had brought him home then, too, guided by some internal instinct that time and distance could not erase.

            The last time he'd been back, he'd been sober enough, but he knew full well that it was only his anger and the unspoken support of the six men that had accompanied him that had seen him through it. Now, as he leaned across his pommel and surveyed the ruins of blackened timbers and scorched stones, he realized that it was different somehow. _He_ was different.

            He still felt the old, clawing rage in his gut, but it wasn't as sharp. He supposed that part of it came from the finally knowing. He knew who had killed Sarah and Adam, and he even knew why. They had died because Ella Gaines had been crazy –obsessed with him—and they had paid the price of her insane jealousy. It didn't lessen his anger any, nor his hatred of himself and her. He'd kill Ella if he ever saw her again, and he'd suffer no remorse for it. But somehow, the knowing had made all the difference.

            Looking at the place now, it seemed as if it had happened in another lifetime …to another man. The passing of years had dulled the razor sharp pain a bit, along with the memories and he realized he could finally look upon the place again without flinching. Swinging down from the horse, he loosened the girth and trailed the rains as he left Job to graze. It was time to see just how much he could stand to take. It was time to finally sift through the ashes.

            There was almost nothing left of the cabin now. What remained of the charred timbers had fallen in upon themselves and had upon their rapid deterioration into the earth. Some of the better ones had been snaked out and dragged away, most likely split for firewood or rail fence by other homesteaders in the valley.  Surprisingly, this did not spark the rush of anger it once might have. Instead, he found himself studying the foundation of the ruin with the same dispassionate gaze he might have swept across the bones of a carcass picked clean.

            Picking his way through the blackened timbers and tumbled stones, he made his way to the ruins of the chimney and circled it carefully, his eyes studying the cracks between the stones. He'd used very little mortar when he'd built it. Each stone had been carefully fitted by hand and stacked tight so that there was no more than a quarter of an inch between them. One of his uncles had been a stone mason back in Indiana, and he'd learned a little of the trade as a boy. He swept his eyes slowly over the base. Even though he'd built it himself, it had been almost six years ago, and it took him several long minutes to find it.

            At last he spotted what he was looking for, a medium sized, reddish stone with a trace of black marbling running through it. He squatted down and worked his fingers into the cracks about it. The stone shifted slightly. He rocked it back and forth, tugging it gently towards him. After a brief struggle, the stone scraped free. Chris paused for a moment, and then slowly edged his hand into the small dark hollow secreted behind the stones. He fumbled blindly for a moment, and then at last his fingers encountered the cool, cylindrical shape of the old cracker tin. He extricated it from the hole, and studied it carefully by the fading rays of the late afternoon sun.

            The combination prolonged moisture and intense heat had served to flake away most of the brightly colored paint. It was barely recognizable to him as the small canister in which Sarah had kept their nest egg. A fine coating of rust coated the surface of the tin, and his hands were red with it as he gently worked at the lid with his fingers.

            He wasn't quite certain what he would find inside. For all he knew, there might be nothing left but ash or moldy paper. The lid came free in his hand. He peered inside. The tight roll of papers appeared to be intact.

            Chris carried the tin back to the shade of the cottonwood and took a seat against the gnarled expanse of the trunk. Carefully, he tipped the can and shook the contents out onto the dry, hard-packed earth. The coins rolled out first –thirty double-eagles, a total of six hundred dollars in gold. His father's pocket watch slipped out behind them, the chain and the winding key rattling against the sides of the can as it went. He vaguely remembered putting it there for safekeeping when the mainspring had broken. He'd always meant to get it fixed, but Eagle Bend had no jeweler or watchmaker and he'd quite frankly forgotten about it. He dropped the watch into his palm, coiled the chain and key behind it, and slipped it into the pocket of his shirt.

            Next came the roll of papers. He pulled it free of the can and separated them carefully. The pages were yellow and damp with mildew and age. He separated the rolls of currency from the larger documents and began to count it. There was another hundred in paper from the Bank in Eagle Bend, making seven hundred dollars in all –if the bank's paper was any good. He hadn't realized that there had been quite so much. They'd been saving to build a new house, a bigger one with clapboard siding and glass in the windows. Now, he only hoped it was enough to purchase…justice.

            He unrolled the larger documents and studied them dispassionately. This was what he had really come for. The deed to the ranch was barely legible even when it had been newly copied. There had been a dearth of printing equipment and official government forms in this part of the country, and the entire document had been written out in the cramped and barely decipherable hand of the Land Agent at Eagle Bend. Chris scanned it for a long moment, re-reading the property description and the terms of purchase and settlement. He would have to ask the Judge's opinion to be certain, but as near as he could figure, the deed was still good and the land still his. 

He raised his eyes to survey the small valley and the stand of timber that spread across the foothills, an odd feeling settling across his shoulders. He had walked away from it so long ago, that it was odd to think of it as his. Somehow, this land, the creek, the timber and the mountains seemed so much larger than he, and impossible to claim. The land belonged to itself, he thought, and you belonged to it --not the other way around. But he had left this place six years ago and except for the memories, this place had hold upon him any more. He looked down at the deed in his hand. It had meant something to him once, but now it was just a piece of paper in his hand …and a means to an end.

Rising to his feet, he walked back over to Job and pulled his saddle bags from behind the cantle of his saddle. Gathering together the stack of coins and the sheaf of papers, he divided them evenly into each bag, taking care that the weight was evenly balanced so as to not risk soring the horse's back. He picked up the biscuit tin, and was about to fling it away into the tall grass, when a faint, tell-tale scraping rattled against the inside of the can. He paused and peered inside, wondering what he had missed.

A small, flat square of metal rested against the bottom, its tarnished surface aged to nearly the same patina as the biscuit tin. Slowly, Chris reached in and plucked it from the bottom of the can, dimly aware of the furious pounding of his heart. In spite of his trembling fingers, he somehow managed to turn it over without dropping it.

The heat of the fire had bubbled and cracked the emulsion, and tiny bits of the image had started to flake away from the edges, but most of the picture was intact. He and Sarah and a five year old Adam, dressed solemnly in their Sunday best, posed for photographer with dark, unblinking eyes. Adam, like his father, wore his hair slicked back. The boy's features were a miniature replica of his own, right down to the piercing dark gaze, and the small, determined chin. Sarah wore a simple, yet elegant dress with a ruffled skirt and a small knot of lace bunched at her throat and secured with the gold cameo pin that had been her grandmother's. He vaguely remembered that the dress had been green. Her auburn hair was neatly braided and piled high upon her head in a mass of shining coils, and he tried to picture the exact coppery hue that sparked in her hair when the sun struck it that way. But he couldn't. 

Chris stared at the tintype for a long moment. He had forgotten. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. He had forgotten how big Adam had grown. He had forgotten so many things…

He expelled the breath he had been holding in a long, slow shudder.  It wasn't fair. Somehow, with all the passing of the years it had all begun to fade –the memory of her face, the sound of Adam's laughter, the scent of the soap and toilet water she used, the feel of small arms wrapped around his neck –all of it had slipped away. –Everything but the pain and the guilt. How was it that of the best part of his life, he had managed to hold on to only the bad things and lose sight of the good? 

He felt the flavor of his anger, bitter as bile on the back of his tongue. It was his own fault, he knew. Josiah would have chalked it up to the wages of sin …the restitution of revenge. He had let his anger and his pain rule him for too many years. He had known even as he had stood in front of that burning barn and stared into the cold, black eyes of Cletus Fowler that he did not want justice. He wanted blood. He had known in that instant that he was no better than the dying bastard before him. Perhaps he never had been.

The biscuit tin dropped from his nerveless fingers. He clutched the tintype tightly, the sharp corners of the metal biting into his palm. This was not what Sarah would have wanted, he thought. It was not a new or sudden realization. He had known it all along, and it only added to his despair. She would have hated this –hated him—hated what he had become. He stared down into the flaking image of her serene expression and for the first time in his life he felt ashamed. He thought of the deed and the money in his saddle bags and wondered what she would have had to say about this. They had worked hard to save every dollar. It had been meant to buy lumber for a new barn and a bigger house. Not for this. Not for a war. Not for more blood.

Drawing a kerchief out of his pocket, he carefully wrapped the tintype within its soft folds and tucked it carefully into his pocket. It was more precious to him than the small fortune sitting in his saddle bags. He hadn't thought there were any pictures left. He had thought they had all burnt in the fire.

He crossed the short distance to the two graves that stood just at the edge of the cottonwood's wide, shady branches. They were marked only by two rough, wooden crosses. Adam's seemed to be listing a bit, and he felt the familiar pang of guilt well up inside him as he scrabbled around for some small stones which he stacked around the base to shore it up. He gripped the cross in both hands, rocking it back and forth to see that it stood firmly in place and added a few more stones to the base. Satisfied that it once more stood square and true, he dropped a hand on top of it and squeezed gently upon the rough hewn wood. For a moment, he could almost recall the firm bones of his son's shoulders beneath his hand. Then like the rest of the memories –fleeting and elusive—it slipped away.

He turned to Sarah's grave and dropped down onto his heels, his green eyes carefully tracing the letters that had been burnt and carved into the wood. Buck had done most of that. His own hands had shaken too badly to wield the running iron. He had built the caskets himself, though. He'd used boards from the wagon box and salvaged the rest from the remains of the house. And he had dug the graves --every last shovel full.

He stared thoughtfully at Sarah's name, carved and scorched into the cross. He missed her the most in times like these, for she had been his conscience and his voice of reason. She tempered his anger and forced him to think rationally –to clearly see right from wrong. He wondered what she would have had to say about this.

He thought she might have approved of the town and the men he rode with –even Standish. She might even have agreed with what he was trying to do, but she would have hated that he was doing it. He supposed that she would have liked Mary Travis, that Adam and Billy would have made fast friends. But for the life of him, he did not know what she would have had to say about these events he was preparing to set in motion. –Hell, Tanner and Standish weren't even sure, and they were up to their necks in it with him.

"What would you say?" he asked softly, "If I told you I was going to take everything we'd saved, everything we'd worked for, and give it all away?"

He smiled grimly. "You'd likely throw a skillet at my head," he decided at last, answering his own question. "But I think maybe you'd understand why."

He took off his hat and ran one hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "These men have to be stopped," he mused, "and if there's a better way to get at them, I don't know what it is." He paused, "But it puts innocent people –friends—at risk …and I just don't know if it's the right thing to do."

There was a time when she would have answered that question for him –told him whether or not the course he followed was true—but that time was long past. He sat there a moment longer, feeling suddenly foolish. If he was waiting for some ethereal answer from beyond the grave, he wasn't going to get it. Sarah was gone. He had only himself and his own instincts to rely upon. He was just going to have to trust them, and the consequences be damned. 

Rising to his feet, he yanked on his hat and stared down at the graves. "I'll see you later," he promised softly. "—Maybe sooner than you think."

***

_Sadie Hoover's Boarding House_

_Eagle __Bend___

            George Tuttle smiled politely to the men and women that he passed upon the boardwalk, but internally, he was fuming. He had just come from the Land Office to check the status on the Lincoln ranch, and the other properties they had obtained for this venture and he had made an unsettling discovery. There was a piece of land that they had not yet acquired, an abandoned homestead on Little Spring Creek. Detweiler and the Land Agent who had joined their select number had assured them that there was no need to rush about it. The place had been abandoned for several years, and no one had shown any interest in taking it over, largely due to the tragedy that had happened there. Apparently the family had been murdered, the killers never found, and no one had been overly eager to take the place up and run the same risks. Possessing the property was not critical to the success of their plan, but Tuttle could not deny that obtaining it would be extremely lucrative for the investors, and so he had taken the time this afternoon to explore the possibilities of acquiring the parcel, along with the Lincoln place. What he had discovered had shocked him.

            He had spent a full sixty seconds staring in disbelief at the signature recorded in the land register. Christopher Larabee. --The same Chris Larabee whose men Detweiler had attacked at the stage station. --The same Chris Larabee who had sent a territorial Judge snooping down their financial trail. This was too much, even for his own sense of irony, and it had taken every bit of self-control not to grab the idiot standing behind the counter of the Land office and throttle him. A further exploration of the situation did not produce any better news. Larabee had indeed resided there for six years. He had built a home and barns and improved the property. He had proven up his claim and owned it outright at the time of his family's murder. Unless Larabee could be convinced to sell, there was nothing to be done about it. –And they didn't dare approach him, Tuttle realized. The man was suspicious enough about the events that had been taking place within the territory. They could not risk having him tumble upon their land scheme, or all would be lost. 

It was true that a number who joined their cause had done so because they fiercely believed in preserving their honor, and the ideals of the Confederacy which they had lost. But Tuttle also knew that most of them—like him—were only in it for the promise of the money and the power. McAllister was too inflamed with his own crazy beliefs to recognize this. Detweiler was too drunk on the power he already wielded. But Tuttle was a cautious man, and he knew full well that this entire scheme was built upon a house of cards. If they could cement this deal, they would gain wealth and power beyond their dreams. But one wrong move, one strong wind could topple everything. He had a strong suspicion that move had already been made. 

Detweiler and McAllister seemed to have faith that Larabee and his men posed no threat to their swelling numbers, but Tuttle was not so sure. He had heard about Larabee. The man was a killer, with the absolute lack of fear that only comes from one who does not care whether he lives or dies. Larabee was the type of man who was willing to risk anything and everything and that, Tuttle knew, made him the most dangerous kind of enemy. He had also heard of the six men that rode with Larabee. They had cleaned out the Nichols gang, and Dickey O'Shea's lot, and just about any other ruffian band who'd made the mistake of crossing tracks with them. It was true they were only seven men, but they were hard men –and dangerous – not the lot of discontented farmers and merchants and ruffians that McAllister and Detweiler had amassed. It was true that Detweiler had introduced them to the taste of blood, and they liked it, but they had been going against defenseless homesteaders, ex-slaves who had never been allowed to hold a gun, much less fire one for most of their adult lives. Larabee's men were weaned on bullets, and he wondered how long the bloodlust would sustain Detweiler's crew once death swung it's in their own direction.

The only way to salvage it, Tuttle knew, was to hold the land deal together. And the only way to do that would be to secure the Lincoln place. Without it, the payoff from the railroad would not be enough to satisfy the investors and the house of cards would come toppling down. Not to mention the fact that he had seen the piercing look in McAllister's cold gray eyes, and he had known that while McAllister held Detweiler responsible for leaving the woman alive in the first place, the failure to obtain the property this time would fall squarely upon his own shoulders.

Tightening his hand upon the handle of his valise, Tuttle forged up the boardwalk and through the front door of Sadie Hoover's boarding house, narrowly colliding with a lean, blonde haired man with feral green eyes, dressed almost entirely in black. Tuttle suppressed the urge to recoil from the contact, so strongly could he feel the deadly purpose that radiated from the man. He cast a quick glance to the pearl handled Colt, strapped to the man's leg. _Gunfighter,_ he thought, and hurried past, wondering if all the boarding houses in Eagle Bend had started catering to a lower class of clientele.

After a brief explanation, he was escorted to a small bedroom where the Lincoln woman lay, propped up against a few thin feather pillows. She looked wan and tired in the fading light of the afternoon, but her dark eyes were alert and cautious as she studied him. Setting his valise down onto a chair, he drew a breath and started in.

"My apologies for disturbing you, Mrs. Lincoln. I am sorry to hear about your loss." He offered her a faint smile, "My name is George Tuttle. I work for the Cattleman's Bank of Ridge City."

The dark eyes regarded him blankly. "I don't know nothin' about no bankin' Mr. Tuttle. My Jesse handled all of that." She paused a moment. "He's dead."

Tuttle shifted uneasily. "Ah, well, yes, Mrs. Lincoln. We are aware of that. Actually, that is part of the reason we came to speak to you. You see, our bank holds the mortgage on your property."

The dark face was expressionless. "Ain't got no mortgage. We got our land from the government. We jest gotta live on it til' it's ours."

Tuttle drew a small breath. This was where it was going to get tricky. He relieved to hear that the woman knew little of financial and business matters. It would make things that much easier. Tuttle was counting on her ignorance to see this through to a successful conclusion.

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Lincoln, that that is only partially true," he said apologetically. "One of the quirks of land disposal, I'm afraid." He bent over the valise and opened it, reaching for a sheaf of papers written in a language so complex that she would never have been able to understand even if she had been able to read the words written upon them.

"When you filed for your claim, you understood that you had the option of either purchasing it from the government outright, or proving it up through the Homestead Act? In which case you would be able to eventually secure ownership through a series of property improvements?"

"That's what the man at the Land Office told my Jesse." Mrs. Lincoln stated flatly.

Tuttle smiled. "Well, ma'am. If it weren't for the unfortunate circumstances that you now find yourself in, I assure you that would indeed have been the case. However, with your husband gone, it seems very unlikely that you will be able to maintain the property and secure ownership. As a result, a group of private investors has entered another bid to the Land Office for your land. They have offered the full purchase price, in cash. If you are not able to rebuild your homestead and continue to live upon your claim, then your deed will be forfeit and the Land Office will be obliged to resell the land to these outside investors."

This was, of course, nothing short of outright fiction, but the old woman had no way of knowing that. However, when presented with the right amount of professional deference and elevated language, it always seemed dangerously plausible to the meek and uninformed. He should know. It was a story he had used many times to his advantage in land schemes back in Iowa and Nebraska. Unfortunately, the Lincoln woman did not seem remotely disturbed, let alone interested.

"An' just what do you have to do with all this?" she wanted to know.

He fixed her with his most sympathetic smile. "Ma'am, let us be frank. There is simply no way you are going to be able to prove up your claim with the situation as it is. You've been badly injured, you have no husband. How can you possibly manage?"

She did not answer. He took it as an encouraging sign and plunged forward.

"The answer is you can't." He set his valise down on the floor and moved the chair closer to the side of her bed, taking a seat upon it and leaning in encouragingly. "Look, Mrs. Lincoln, the men I represent are not without sympathy for your cause. They do not want to see you struggle so desperately only to fail and end up with nothing. However, they do desire to purchase your land. They are prepared to make you an offer…"

He shuffled through the papers and quoted her a price that was barely a third of what the property was worth. He smiled regretfully at her. "I know it's not as much as one might hope for, but considering the loss of the house and outbuildings, it's really the best that can be expected."

She still said nothing, and he felt an unexpected flash of anger. Didn't the woman understand that she had no choice? Drawing a deep breath, he summoned the rest of his flagging patience and tried another tack.

"Look, Mrs. Lincoln, just what do you intend to do now that your husband is gone? You can't possibly be thinking of trying to keep the place yourself."  
            "No," she agreed quietly. "I doubt I could bear to set foot on the place again. I was thinkin' I might go on west –see if I could stay a while with my brother an' his kin."

Tuttle smiled broadly. "Well there you have it." He reshuffled the papers to the proper page and reached into his valise for a pen and a bottle of ink. "Now then Mrs. Lincoln, if you'll just sign right here, we can conclude the matter to everyone's satisfaction."

She looked at him suspiciously. "What's this say?" she asked, slowly taking the sheet of paper he handed her.

"It's a contract for the sale of your land," he explained. "Basically, it states that you will sign your property over to our investors and in exchange they will give you the agreed upon purchase price of four hundred dollars."

He pointed to the small white space at the bottom of the paper. "All you have to do is sign right here."

"I can't." she said flatly.

"Oh," he said and offered an embarrassed smile. "Just make your mark then, and I can record the signature for you."

"No." she said the word more firmly this time, and Tuttle's smile froze upon his lips.

"I'm sorry?"

She eyed him for a long moment. "Can't sell what ain't mine," she said at last. 

Tuttle felt a cold trickle of sweat begin to slide its way down the inside of his starched collar. "I'm afraid I don't understand…"

Mrs. Lincoln sat up a little straighter in her bed and handed him back the paper. "The land ain't mine no more. I sold it."

"To whom?" he snapped as the fine thread of his patience broke.

She shrugged. "Don't rightly know. Seemed like a nice young man though." Her brown eyes bored into him and her hands slipped beneath the blankets, drawing them up around her more tightly. "He give me six hundred dollars."

"When?" Tuttle demanded, unable to get over the shock that was coursing through him. 

She raised one shoulder slightly. "Jest a few minutes ago. You must have passed him on your way in.

Tuttle recalled the dangerous looking man he'd brushed shoulders with as he'd entered the boarding house. _Christ, no, he thought feeling the panic well up in him. _It couldn't be…__

"Do you happen to recall his name?" he asked weakly.

The old woman seemed to consider it for a moment. "Larabee," she said at last. "I think he said his name was Larabee."

Wordlessly, Tuttle gathered up his papers and shoved them back into his valise, exiting the room without so much as a goodbye. His cheeks burnt as he descended the open staircase, and he half expected to hear the cackle of the old woman's laughter following after him, but it never came. 

Inside the bedroom, Anna Lincoln listened intently to the sound of the retreating footsteps and the distant opening and closing of the front door. Only then did she release the breath she had been holding and remove her hand from the double barreled shotgun she had hidden beneath her quilts. Larabee had been right. She would heed his advice. As soon as she was well enough, she would take his money and go to California. In the mean time, she and her old shotgun were gonna keep mighty close company. She smiled grimly. He was a canny one, that Mr. Larabee. She wished him all the best.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Author's Note: _**_Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to this piece. Between a massive case of writer's block and another novel length story distracting me from my attention, I've not had time to work on this one as of late. But I haven't given up on it later. Hopefully, I'll get more written as the summer progresses… And thanks to all those who've encouraged me to keep up with it!_

**The Brotherhood**

**Chapter Fifteen**

_The __Seminole__Village___

_Two Nights later…_

The flames of the council fire leapt and danced in the darkness, bathing the bronze and ebony bodies of the tribal elders in its glowing warmth. The blaze jumped and flickered, stretching its fiery fingers here and there to illuminate the side of a pueblo here, reveal the flank of a grazing horse there. With the occasional soft gust of the night wind, it stretched even farther to touch the side of a rocky cliff and caress its way along the dull gleam of a cannon barrel buried deep within the rocks. Now and then, a log would snap and pop, releasing small sparks that floated effortlessly into the obsidian sky, their glowing embers seeming to join the stars for a brief moment before fading into nothingness, but even these small specks of dying light could not touch the man who sat quietly on a blanket at the far edge of the Village in deep meditation.

A soft hint of dry desert breeze –still warm from the rocks it had cooled – brushed his cheek and ruffled his hair and he felt himself ease somewhat as he let the wind carry away the troubling thoughts that had clouded his mind for the past few hours. He had been of two minds about this trip from the moment Larabee had placed that cursed piece of gold in his hand. The act had bothered him, for it was an admission that they were about to tackle a job they could not do alone.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when this would not have bothered him. He had welcomed death then. Indeed, he had expected it. He was surprised to discover that he was not so eager to greet it now. After more than forty odd years of wandering the world from mission to mission, from the sacred streets of Rome to the far off mystique of the Orient in search of the answers to the mysteries of life, he had found it here, in a back water little desert town on the edge of the New Mexico territory. He knew that he had not found the meaning of life in general, but rather, he had finally found something that gave his own life meaning: people who needed his help, a church that needed his hand, a place to call his home and six men to call his family. For the first time in his forty-eight years, Josiah Sanchez was content, and he had no desire to meet his God anywhere other than in the pages of his bible or in the whitewashed halls of his church on Sunday. They had nearly lost Ezra to this reign of terror, and he was not at all anxious to lose anyone else.

What bothered him more was the fact that they were asking the help of a people who were not in a position to offer it easily. The Seminole were no longer the fierce warriors they had once been. Their young men who hadn't died of disease and famine had been killed by Col. Anderson. What men were left were as old and gray as Tastanagi, or as young and innocent as the children Ezra had played with in the days they had spent there. Their people had survived this long only by remaining in seclusion. What Chris was asking of them would place them in the path of danger and might cost them more than they could afford to lose. Still, he had asked …and Josiah knew Larabee had done so because he could think of nothing else to do.

_ The only way out of the fire is through it…_

The old pearl of wisdom, a small bit of cryptic truth once dropped before him by somebody –either a Hindu Fahkir or maybe a Tibetan monk— echoed softly through his head. He closed his eyes in reflection and picked out Tastanagi's voice rising above the others gathered round the fire. He could not blame them for taking so long to debate the matter. It was no small thing that Larabee asked, and if they agreed, it would truly be a trial by fire.

A small sound stirred behind him, but he did not start, for he had sensed her presence long before she alerted herself to his other five senses. Though it was dark, he knew it was she by the serene pool of calm emotion that crept over him even as she seated herself on the ground at his side. She was a lot like Nathan that way.

Her face showed no expression as she gazed out into the darkness to the council fire where the tribal elders sat. In that moment, she reflected nothing but the stoic, impassive acceptance of her Seminole heritage.

She said nothing at first, and Josiah did not greet her, for the night held an intensity that seemed to preclude unnecessary words. There were times when more was said in silence than could be put into the spoken tongue. It was a concept long taught by the monks of the Orient as well as the traditional brothers of Christianity, and it was something the Indian inherently understood but few white men ever were able to grasp.

The gentle desert wind whispered softly across their skin and he could feel the questions that radiated from her, but knew that she would not ask them. –It would have been too bold. There was an art to this style of conversation, and he could sense her ordering her mind in preparation for it.

"He did not come with you," she said at last, her voice as musical as the night breeze.

"No," Josiah agreed, "but not because he did not want to."

"Because he could not."

"Yes," Josiah affirmed. "It is not safe right now –for him or your people."

Rain made a small, impatient gesture. "It will never be safe," she said, her voice abrupt. "I will be old and he will be dead with a hundred dangers slain by his hand and still there will be no place that is safe for our people."

There was a quiet anger in her voice and her eyes as she continued, "We have waited all this time, with nothing to show for it but wasted years."

The preacher sighed deeply. He had expected this moment –had known it was coming since that day Rain had appeared so unexpectedly in town, nearly a year past. She loved Nathan, but even she would not wait forever. Few women could, for this was a land too harsh to allow it. The tribe had expected her to marry by now –for the good of the people as well as herself. In a time of famine and hardship, the children had become their greatest asset and their only hope for a better future. As a woman of the tribe, her duty had been made clear. The elders had even gone so far as to select a man for her to marry, but she had refused him. Her heart belonged to Nathan and she wanted no other. It was that resolve that had caused her to leave the safety of her people and strike out alone in search of the healer.

Nathan had said later that Rain had needed to see if she truly felt the same things for him as she had before –and if he still felt the same for her. She had left reassured, but it was clear to the preacher that with the passing of another year, her resolve was weakening. He wondered how much longer it would be before her love and determination crumbled under the pressure of the tribal elders and a prospective husband. Love was undoubtedly the most powerful force in the universe, but even love needed a bit of tending every now and then to stay so.

The day was soon arriving, Josiah thought, when both Nathan and Rain must make a choice about their lives together or apart. Were he talking to Nathan, he would have found it a simple thing to tell him so, but it was not Nathan who was with him now, and though he liked Rain, he was not certain he knew her well enough to explain it to her. But the course of the discussion had already been set, and so he continued with this game of question through observation.

"You are angry with him."

Other women –white women—would have denied it, but it was not the way of her people.

"Yes," she said simply.

Josiah nodded. "You reckon he's past due in coming for you."

"Yes," she said again.

"You're right in that," Josiah said quietly and saw her look of surprise –and hurt. "But you're wrong about his reasons."

She frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

Josiah sighed, "I don't think it's just concern for your safety that keeps Nathan from coming for you. –It's your happiness …and his."

Hot anger flushed her cheeks. "He is happy here!" she protested.

The preacher nodded. "Yes …for a while. But how long will it last? –You saw it yourself, Rain –that day we rode out of here. You saw the look in his eyes. You were the one who told him to go with us. You knew it, even then."

"Yes," she said quietly, her voice sounding small in the vast emptiness of the desert night. "…but I had hoped…"

"As did he," Josiah said quietly, "when you came to town huntin' him."

"He didn't come back."

"And you didn't stay," the preacher countered.

Rain shrugged. "It was not my place. They were not my people."

Josiah raised his eyes, gesturing towards the pueblo with a tilt of his head. "And these are not his."

The young woman stared at him as if he had just proclaimed the moon the sun. "How can you say that?" she demanded. "His skin as dark as mine. He suffered and escaped the same white man's chains as did my father and half of this village!"

She paused for breath and eyed the preacher angrily. "If we are not his people, then who is?"

Josiah was silent for a long moment. "I expect you know the answer to that," he said quietly.

She let the silence hang between them, and then nodded. "I do," she said at last, "but I do not understand it."

"What is there to understand?"

She shook her head. "How can he do it? How can he choose strangers –white men—over his own kind?"

Josiah inhaled sharply, surprised by the question. He had spent so much time in the presence of the white man's prejudice that he had nearly forgotten there could be another kind.

"Others might have asked the same of Tastanagi when he allowed your father and uncle and the rest of the escaped slaves to join the Seminole and live as one people. And I reckon there are freed slaves about who might have put that very question to your father."

"Nathan never did," she protested, and Josiah smiled as he realized just how small and sheltered her world had been. Likely, Nathan was the only other black man she had known outside the men of her own Village.

"No," he agreed, "but Nathan isn't of the common run. He understands what only a few men are capable of seeing –men like your father and Tastanagi …and Larabee."

Reaching down, he took her hand and held it up to the light of the pale desert moon. The silver rays cast a sharp contrast between them. Tanned though it was, his own fingers stood in stark and pale relief against the backs of her ebony hands. Brushing his thumbs lightly over her knuckles, he squeezed her fingers in a gentle grip.

"Men like that," he said quietly, "are born to be leaders, because they understand the secret to finding their true people."

"And what is that?"

The preacher looked down at their hands, black against white in the pale gray light of the desert moon. Smiling solemnly, he turned her hands over revealing palms as pale and work roughened as his own. --White against white.

"It's not what's on the surface that makes us alike or different," he said softly, "…it's what's underneath."

For a moment, Rain looked as if she was about to speak, then a neutral expression settled over her features. It was carefully schooled, Josiah realized, and suddenly understood that they were no longer alone. Turning her head neither left nor right, Rain spoke calmly into the darkness.

"What is it, Uncle?"

A tall, imposing figure detached from the darkness and Joseph appeared. His face was as impassive as that of his niece. Josiah was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the impropriety of the moment, for the Seminole guarded their women closely. He wondered just how much the older man had seen or heard, but like the people whose ways Joseph had made his own, Rain's uncle revealed nothing of his thoughts. Instead, he turned the full weight of his dark gaze upon the preacher.

"Come down to the fire. The elders would hear your words."

Inez paused to sample the pot of frijoles she had been stirring and frowned as she turned towards the sound of the footsteps echoing lightly on the back steps of the saloon. It was early yet, not much past breakfast, and she wouldn't open for another couple of hours. Likely it was one of Them, she thought. They were regular visitors to her back stoop, coming and going as they did to check upon Ezra's condition. But the shadow that crossed her back threshold was not nearly as large as she would have expected. Instead, the slight figure of Mrs. Rafferty's eldest son appeared in the kitchen doorway, a bundle beneath his arm and a valise at his feet. Wiping her hands on her apron, she eyed the boy as she approached the door. Although on occasion one or two of the locals might send their children to the back door with a pail to purchase some ale to go with their supper, the Rafferty's studiously avoided her establishment. Rumor had it that it likely had to do something with the late Mr. Rafferty's unfortunate demise, crushed beneath the wheels of a beer wagon while sleeping off a severe case of intoxication in the middle of a San Antonio street. She frankly couldn't blame them, and she fixed the boy a winning smile.

"And what brings you to my door today, Senor Rafferty?" she asked, addressing him formally, as she tended to do with all gringos.

The boy studied her warily through the screen of the back kitchen door. "I've brought Mr. Standish's things. His rent ran out at the end of the week. What with him bein' laid up an' all, Ma'am figured he couldn't pay, so she let his room out."

Inez raised one ebony winged brow. "I see," she murmured and released the apron, letting it flutter back into place.

She frowned down at the bundle, somewhat disconcerted to discover that not only did she have an invalid on her hands, but a homeless one at that. Although she had found the gambler comfortably settled here in these rooms above the saloon when she had first come to town, his mother's takeover of the enterprise had been too much for Ezra's pride to take. He had secured a room at Rafferty's boarding house, packed his things and moved out the next day, vowing he would sooner die than be beholden to the rapacious creature who'd whelped him –whatever that meant. Now, with the town's businesses bustling, and rooms at the boarding houses coming at a premium, it appeared that he was going to have little choice in the matter.

She shot the boy a regretful look. "I'm sure Senor Standish will be sorry to hear that," she said. "He has often commented upon your mother's good hospitality. It's too bad you did not say something sooner. If it was simply a matter of money, I'm sure Senor Standish would have gladly paid it. He always keeps a bit set aside."

The boy gave her a knowing look. "Didn't seem to be much point, seein's how he's so comfortable here an' all. Ma'am' figured he'd likely want to stay on, since like as not he's appreciatin' your hospitality even more."

Inez flushed scarlet at the insinuation in the boy's voice and her brown eyes fairly snapped. "Michael Rafferty!" she snapped, "Surely your mother would be horrified to hear you speak to a woman in such a way."

The boy smirked at her, something dark and ugly in his eyes. "Don't see how it matters much. The way folks tell it, you ain't no lady anyways."

Inez couldn't help it. She recoiled instinctively at the hateful words and vindictive tone, retreating further into the shadows of the kitchen. She had been prepared for the venomous gossip of the townspeople. She had told herself she was immune to the leering looks from the men, and the whispered scorn of the women. She knew well enough what they said. She had heard it all before. She was only a filthy Mexican, a loose woman, a whore. She had told herself that she could deal with it. She and God knew the truth, and that was all that mattered. --But to hear it from a child…

She heard the soft echo of a footstep pause upon the boardwalk that ran along the side of the saloon and her jaw clenched. Bad enough that the boy had said it to her, but it was that much worse that someone else had heard it. She forced herself to keep her head high as she glared at the boy. She would not let him get to her. She had survived far worse things than embarrassment. She had survived Don Paulo.

"I reckon a man who'd say such a thing ain't much of a gentleman, either." Vin Tanner drawled softly as he stepped into the alley and studied the boy.

Mike Rafferty paled at the site of the lean tracker, and then squared his shoulders, a look of stubborn determination crossing his features. "And just what would you know about it?"

Flinty blue eyes stared down into murky hazel. "I reckon I know enough. Leastways my ma taught me a thing or two about manners before she died. –Enough to know that a gentleman never speaks poorly about a woman, no matter what folks might say." Tanner paused and there was a warning in his silence as he drew closer to the boy. "Womenfolk are a precious commodity in this country," he said easily. "Out here, a man who treat's em' poorly ain't considered to be much of a man at all."

The boy flushed a bright scarlet, and his fists clenched slightly in anger, but Tanner blithely ignored his embarrassment. "You might apologize to Miss Rocillos," he said easily. "It takes a big man to do it, but it would be the gentlemanly thing to do." He smiled faintly. "An I reckon she's enough of a lady to forgive you."

The boy turned and mumbled a hasty apology, his cheeks still glowing with shame and embarrassment. Inez smiled painfully and returned a quiet platitude.

"Leave the things on the porch," she instructed. "I will get them later."

The boy dumped the valise and the bundle on the top step and beat a hasty retreat. Vin's shadow appeared in the doorway a moment later.

"You all right?" he asked.

Inez shrugged. "Si," she said ruefully. "It is nothing I have not heard before."

Tanner's eyes followed her, serious and intent. "Don't make it any less hurtful," he said.

"No," she agreed, "but I have not made my living by worrying what others think."

Reaching down, Vin gathered up the valise and the bundle the boy had abandoned on the back steps. When he rose, there was a faint smile in his eyes, shy and gentle. "Well, don't know if it makes any difference, but you'll always be a lady to me."

She returned the smile and it was full of misty warmth. "Gracias, Senor Vin. –It does."

Vin brought Ezra's belongings inside and set them down upon the rough plank table. The valise was filled with clothes and the bundle contained a few shirts and three or four weighty, leather bound volumes. Vin squinted at the gold lettering on the spines. He'd been working at his reading with Mary Travis from time to time, and one of the words was familiar. Tennyson. It was a name that he knew, for Mary had been helping him work his way through a few bits of poetry to begin with. He couldn't make heads or tales of the other one, but it was some sort of tales. He flipped it in his hand to study the spine and silently worked out the author's name. The first name was a confusing jumble, but the last name was more familiar. It looked very much like a word Mary had taught him last week –saucer. --Except there was a "Ch" instead of an "s" in front of the word. He sounded it out silently in his mind. Chaucer? The same name as Ez's horse, he thought. It made sense, and he felt a hint of satisfaction at both his improving ability and the newfound insight into his friend. He'd always thought Chaucer to be a strange name for a horse. Knowing Ezra, he should have figured it would have to do with some literary fella.

Inez picked up one of the volumes and traced her finger over the embossed cover, a look of hunger in her eyes. He understood that look, he'd felt it himself every time he'd seen Chris or Josiah kicked back on the boardwalk with a book, or found JD sitting at his desk in the Sheriff's office devouring a dog-eared dime novel. He watched as Inez carefully opened the book, gently paging through until she found an engraving. She studied the illustration intently, trying to divine an entire story from the single image. Catching his eye upon her, she blushed and closed the book.

"I wish I knew what it was about," she confessed.

_ 'So do I,'_ he thought.

"Do you read many books, Senor Vin?"

He shrugged slightly. "I try my hand at it from time to time," he hedged, and replaced the book in Ezra's satchel. "You should learn," he suggested.

Inez laughed ruefully. "And who would teach me? There is not even a school here."

"Mrs. Travis," he replied. He doubted Mary would mind. She seemed to like Inez well enough and he'd noticed that she definitely liked to share her knowledge.

Inez shook her head. "Don't be silly! She is too busy. –As am I," she waved a hand to indicate the saloon. "I have no time for such things. Besides, I am too old to learn now."

"A body ain't never too old to learn," Vin argued. "Just a matter of putting your mind to it is all."

The bar maid waved her hand as if to brush away the subject, but he could still see the longing in her eyes. "It is nothing," she said firmly. "A foolish notion."

Vin nodded gently. He'd hidden behind his own pride for too many years not to understand perfectly. Taking the book from her hands, he returned it to the satchel, along with the rest of Ezra's belongings and gathered them up. "You ought 'ta just have Ez read 'em to ya," he said, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "Won't stop your work none, an' givin' him somethin' to do might make him less ornery."

Inez snorted. "I do not think there is anything that can help with that."

Vin allowed a small grin to spread across his features. "Probably right about that," he allowed, and headed up the back stairs with Ezra's belongings.

Josiah finished tying his bedroll behind the cantle of his saddle and then moved to the sorrel gelding's girth and reached down to tighten the cinch. The horse instinctively drew a breath in retaliation against the maneuver, but in the end the big man's strength won out. Moving to the horse's head, he untied the reins and turned to lead the horse away, stopping suddenly at the silent figure that suddenly appeared in his path.

"You are leaving." Tastanagi said, in that smooth blend of question and observation.

Josiah nodded. "I have to," he said quietly. "The others are short handed enough as it is. They'll need my help if something happens."

"As they need ours?"

Josiah nodded again. "Yes," he said simply.

Tastanagi's face was implacable, but Josiah could tell by the way the chieftain stood that more was on his mind than he was saying. He couldn't blame him. He'd unloaded a troubling situation upon their council fires last night when he'd placed Larabee's proposition before them. He'd done what Chris had asked of him, and spoken upon the matter as well as he could, but he couldn't be sure of his success. They were asking these people to buy into what amounted to a very large packet of trouble. Even he wasn't sure it was worth the cost.

He had left the council last night without an answer, and now as he studied the troubled look in the old man's eyes, he knew that he was going to have to ride out of here without one as well. He didn't know if he should be worried or relieved.

Apparently, neither did Tastanagi.

"These men," he said slowly, "these… 'white riders,' do you really believe they are a threat to our people?"

Josiah looked down at the reins in his hands as he formulated his answer. "Men like that are a threat to all mankind," he said finally. "But as to your tribe alone? –It's hard to say."

He looked out over the small village, sheltered and hidden by the rising walls of the canyon and the mountains. "They might leave you alone for a while. Focus more on the black homesteaders and the Mexicans, but sooner or later, they'll find this place and when they do, they'll likely do the same to you." He nodded to Rain's uncle, sitting in the shade of a canopy, mending a broken bridle.

"It won't help you none that you've taken folks like Joseph in among you, either."

"It must be bad if Larabee would come to us for help." Tastanagi mused.

"It is," Josiah replied. "It's not that there are more of them than we can fight, --although there may be. It's that we don't know who we are fighting."

Tastanagi nodded slowly. "This thing that Larabee promises us," he said carefully. "This land he says he will give us that no white man can take away… --Can he really do it?"

Josiah shrugged. "I've never known Chris to offer something he didn't have to give. If he says he can do it, then I reckon he can." He looped his reins over the gelding's neck. "What should I tell him when I get back?"

Tastanagi shook his head. "I do not know," he said finally. "This thing that you ask of us is no small matter. The elders must discuss it further."

"We will need an answer soon," Josiah said.

The chief looked thoughtful. "Tell Larabee he will have his answer in three day's time."

Swinging up onto the horse, Josiah gathered up his reins to steady the animal and then reached down to offer his hand to Tastanagi. "Thank you," he said simply. To add anymore would seem improper, considering the task at hand.

The other man merely nodded and clasped Josiah's forearm, squeezing lightly below the elbow in the Seminole version of welcome and farewell. Releasing Josiah's arm, the old man stepped back from the horse.

Josiah wheeled the sorrel with a farewell wave to the villagers. Setting the horse to an easy trot, he moved out across the mouth of the valley and up the narrow rocky trail that led over the mountains, north to Four Corners and the settled territories.

He had not gotten far up the trail –barely to the foothills—when a slim brown figure rose gracefully from a large boulder beside the trail. It was Rain. He pulled up, slowing the horse as he approached her. Part of him had been expecting this. Their conversation last night had seemed somehow …unfinished.

Threading her way through the boulders with the fleet grace of a young doe, she produced a small leather pouch and offered it to him. "Food," she said simply, "for the trail."

He nodded and took the pouch from her. "I'm much obliged," he said, and meant it. He would have to make camp somewhere tonight between here and town and he had not been looking forward to the jerky in his saddle bags.

She put a hand to the gelding's shoulder, staying him. "I've been thinking," she said, "about what you said. You were right," she said sadly, "He needs to be with his people… and you are his people now. His place is there among you, and mine is here, among my tribe. There can be no other way."

Josiah sighed and wondered who Nathan was going to be angrier at: Chris, asking the Seminole to be involved in this dangerous business, or himself, for interfering in things between him and Rain. This was not the outcome that he had intended at all.

"I don't think it's as hopeless as all that," he said finally. "Nathan loves you. You love him. That's got to count for something."

Rain shook her head. "How can it work? I cannot live in his world, and he will not be happy in mine."

"Then make a new world," Josiah said. "One that suits both of you together."

The words came so suddenly and with such little thought, that the inspiration could only have come from the Almighty himself. He was sure of it when an old familiar passage suddenly surfaced in his memory to support the argument.

"There's a bit in the good book written for folks in just such a fix as you and Nathan," he said.

Settling back into his saddle, he raised his eyes heavenward and willed the Good Lord to bring it back a bit more clearly to his mind. "It says that there comes a certain point in time when a man must leave his house and family and cleave to his wife, and a woman must leave her house and family and cleave to her husband and the two of them together should make a place of their own. --I never had much occasion to follow it myself, but it always seemed like sound advice."

"Yes," Rain murmured. "It does."

Among her people, such bits of wisdom were handed down in stories from the shamans and medicine men of the tribe. There was a similar saying among the Seminole as well. She wondered how the white man's book had come to know of it. Nathan had told her of books, could even read them. She was curious about such a book that could hold such powerful wisdom.

"This good book you speak of, what is it called?"

Josiah offered her a wide gentle smile. "The Holy Bible."

"I think I would like to hear more of this book," she said.

Gathering his reins Josiah urged the horse forward. "If you ever decide to come back to Four Corners, stop into the Church to visit. I'd be glad to read it to you."

"Maybe I will," she said, cocking her head slightly.

Josiah's grin broadened. Maybe she would indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Brotherhood**

**Chapter Sixteen**

Ezra grimaced with effort as he rolled onto his side and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled somewhat stiffly to the table by the window and gently leaned one shoulder against the sill for support as he cracked the sash a bit wider, allowing more of the late evening breeze into the room. The pain in his back had lessened somewhat and he had been able to walk under his own power since yesterday morning, but the periodic bouts of dizziness had left him wary of his own balance.

He spotted the covered tray that rested on the table and lifted the towel that covered it to reveal a hearty bowl of stew. It smelled wonderful, but did little to pick up his appetite. This time it was not nausea that churned his stomach, it was guilt.

He'd been a complete bastard to her this morning. Come to think of it, he'd been a complete bastard, period. Yet she continued to show him kindness. Anyone else would have washed their hands of him by now.

They'd had another altercation this morning. Between the constant agony of his wounds and the aggravating confinement of the room, his temper had been foul to the extreme. She'd given just as good as she'd gotten, though. She'd hurled her words back at him like lightning bolts in a confusing mixture of Spanish and English before slamming the door behind her –hard enough to rattle the windows in their sills. And yet, not five minutes ago, he had roused to the gentle brush of fingertips across his forehead and the light sound of her footsteps slipping from his room. It made him feel doubly low.

He knew what it was. It was pride, pure and simple. Vanity had always been one of his main failings, second only to greed. Over the years, he had indulged it on a regular basis. He'd never liked anyone to see him in times of illness or infirmity. Maude had instilled in him the importance of a strong front from an early age.

_"Appearances are everything. Never let them see you at anything less than your best," _she had counseled._ "They smell weakness like a jackal smells blood. They'll fall upon you and tear you apart." _The fact that she had slipped the bonds of kinship to do so on more than one occasion only served to illustrate the point.

Well, he thought grimly, he certainly wasn't at his best now –neither mentally nor physically. He'd caught only the briefest glimpse of himself in the looking glass as he'd staggered from the bed to the wardrobe where Inez had unpacked his few belongings. He looked like hell. Unshaven, pale and hollow-eyed, he seemed more specter than man …and that was his good side.

He didn't even want to think what his back must look like. What he could see was bad enough. Judging from the cuts and bruises on his sides and the long laceration where he had been flayed from flank to hip, his back must be a veritable rainbow of color.

The flesh along his sides varied from deep purple to mottled green, brown and yellow, and that was merely the bruises. The cuts must be even worse. They had started to scab, but the slightest movement opened them anew, making Inez's constant ministrations of washing and dressing them an unpleasant necessity. He did not know how she stood it so stoically. The mere thought of it was enough to raise the bile to his palate, and he couldn't even see the damage.

As it was, it would be several days before he could bear the weight of a waistcoat and frock, and even then Nathan did not advise it unless he desired to risk the fine linen to the blood stains that would inevitably seep through the dressings. --Which, of course, he did not. His cash situation was not flush and he could ill-afford to ruin his rapidly dwindling wardrobe. That meant, of course, that he would be forced to remain in this damnable room for even longer. He would be surprised if Inez didn't decide to poison him before this was over.

He was still standing at the window, glumly contemplating his situation when she breezed into the room with her tray of salve and dressings. She hesitated briefly upon seeing him at the window, and then continued to the small table beside the bed. Turning her back squarely upon him, she began arranging her items on the little table. Ezra wondered if she was as grateful for the diversion as he was. In spite of the cool breeze whispering through the window, he could feel the hot blush beginning to creep across his skin as he glanced down at the cotton drawers he had managed to retrieve from the wardrobe. Much as he hated to admit it, that old bat, Fiona Rafferty, had done him a favor. Had she not evicted him, he doubted he'd have had anything to wear at all.

Everyone seemed too busy with other things to manage such a trivial favor as bringing him some clothes. Under Nathan's supervision, Vin, Buck and JD had spent most of the last two days making repairs to the Clarion's scorched interior. Josiah had not yet returned from the Seminole Village, and God only knew where Larabee had ridden off to. Aside from Nathan's infrequent and hurried visits to check on his progress, he'd seen no one but Inez since yesterday morning when Vin had brought up his belongings.

He snuck another surreptitious glance down at the thin cotton that covered him and silently thanked the heavens that darkness curtained the window at his back. He was fully aware of just how thin the light, summer-weight undergarment was. Had it been daylight, the view she'd had from the door way would have been improper to the extreme. –Not that there was really anything all that proper about him standing here before her, clad in nothing but his under drawers. He scowled slightly, irritated with himself for this mild discomfort. It wasn't that he was prude. –Far from it. It was simply that he was a gentleman and she was …Inez.

"I was hoping you would still be asleep," she said mildly, breaking through the silence. "You are much more pleasant when you are unconscious."

He managed a wry smile. "So I have been told."

She sighed "Well, sit down and let's get it over with. At the moment, it is slow downstairs, but it won't last long. If I don't change your dressings now, I won't have another chance."

Obediently, Ezra moved to the chair and straddled it, hands gripping the side rails in preparation for the discomfort to come. Both were silent as Inez clipped neatly through the bandages, pulling them back as gently as she could. Ezra managed to hold his tongue through the bathing of the cuts, though his knuckles gradually whitened their grip upon the chair back.

"You are very quiet," Inez said at last, smoothing some of the salve across his shoulders.

"I am endeavoring to maintain a façade of polite dignity."

Inez frowned. The association which had developed between the gambler and herself in the course of operating the saloon had served to broaden her grasp of the English language. Even so, there were still times when his words confused her.

"Que?" She muttered, slipping back into her native tongue.

"I am trying not to act like a miserable sonovabitch," Ezra said dryly.

From the looking glass across the room, he caught a glimpse of their reflections; a small smile quirked at the corner of Inez's mouth.

"It must be difficult."

"You have no idea."

Ezra sighed deeply. "I owe you an apology, Inez. I fear that your kind ministrations may come at the peril of our friendship."

She finished smearing the last of the ointment on his back and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. "Actually, I have found it a refreshing change. I spend most of my time fending off advances, rather than insults."

Ezra grinned. "Perhaps Buck should change tactics."

She swatted him gently on the back of the head and reached for the bandages. "You should come downstairs," she said. "it is not good for you to stay cooped up in here for so long."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm hardly presentable."

She shrugged. "Come down later, after I close. There will be no one here. No one will see."

Ezra, ever mindful of propriety, raised one auburn brow. "You will see," he reminded her.

She hesitated on the threshold, the tray of dressings balanced expertly on one hand as she reached for the door with the other. Her eyes swept him with a frank, assessing look and for just an instant, he thought he caught a glimpse of the vixen everyone assumed that she was.

"Si," she lightly, and flashed him a knowing smile. "But it is nothing I have not seen before, no?"

Orrin Travis leaned on the freshly scrubbed railing of the open staircase and stared grimly at the mayhem below.

"You were fortunate," he said, taking in the filthy plaster, the scorched press, and the gaping holes in wall and floor where charred wainscot and floorboards had been removed.

"I don't feel that lucky," Mary grumbled, tossing her damp rag back into the tin wash basin and wiping the back of her hand across her cheek. The action left a sooty smudge across her cheekbone that highlighted the paleness of her skin and the shadows below her eyes. Standing there, with her calico dress stained, her cheeks smudged and her pale gold hair falling loose from the pins, she didn't look that much older than Billy. The realization did little to soften his flinty demeanor.

"Well, you were," Orrin said tersely, using annoyance to mask his worry as he continued down the staircase. "You could have been hurt," he observed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and circling the broken press like a trial lawyer parading evidence before the jury box, "…or worse."

Mary sighed, wrinkling her nose against the acrid smell of the soot and the sharp odor of the vinegar water she had been using to remove it. "I know that," she admitted, wearily drying her hands upon her filthy apron. "I underestimated them. We all did. I'll just have to be more careful next time."

"There isn't going to be a next time," Orrin rapped. "I'm taking you home to stay with Evie and Billy and me until this is over."

"No," Mary said firmly, meeting her father-in-law squarely in the eye. "I'm not going to run away from this, Orrin. I didn't run when Stephen died, and I won't run now." Moving past him, she went to the windows and looked out into the darkened street.

"Stephen believed in this town," she said quietly. "He believed in these people. To leave now would defeat everything he worked for. I can't do that."

"You can't keep living your life for Stephen, either." Orrin reminded her gently. "He's gone, Mary. He'd want you to move on. Most of all, he'd want you to be safe. He'd be the first one to tell you that."

"I know," she said quietly. "If he were still here, he'd have had me on your door step a week ago."

She felt Orrin's gaze boring into her, knew that he was silently measuring her words against her tone and poise, threading his way through her argument to divine the truth she would not speak.

"This isn't about Stephen at all, is it? This is about you."

She nodded reluctantly. "I'm my own person here," she said quietly, "I have a voice. I can make a difference." She shook her head faintly. "I couldn't do that before, and if I leave this place, I won't be able to do it again."

"I don't see why not," Orrin murmured. "People start over all the time."

Mary shook head, amazed that a man could be so astute and yet so dense. "Not people, Orrin," she corrected, "_men._ I could never have done anything like this when Stephen was alive. No one ever saw me as anything more than Stephen's wife and Billy's mother. –No one… not even me. –Don't get me wrong, Orrin, I loved it, and I loved him, but when he died, everything changed. I had to keep this paper going for Billy. People understood that, and they allowed for it here, because they knew Stephen…because they came to know me."

She shook her head sadly. "If I leave, I'll leave all of that behind. I'll have to go back to just being Billy's mother, your daughter-in-law…Stephen's widow…I….I won't belong to myself anymore."

She could feel Orrin's presence very close behind her, and closed her eyes, waiting for his condemnation. Instead, there was only a very long silence.

"Is that why you wouldn't marry Gerard?"

Her shoulders trembled with a tiny laugh. "Yes," she said at last, "I guess it was…at least part of it anyway."

Orrin privately wondered if the other part didn't have something to do with Chris Larabee, but he wasn't about to ask. Much as he liked and respected the man, he'd rather have seen Mary end up with someone like Gerard, someone steady and safe. Too many long shadows fell about Larabee, shadows of death and danger, and he wanted no part of that darkness in Mary and Billy's lives. But Mary was an independent woman, and if she wished to walk in those shadows, then Orrin Travis knew he did not have the power to stop her. He could only stand beside her, come what may.

She turned to face him suddenly, her blues filled with uncertainty. "Am I being selfish?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly

He settled a warm, gently hand on her shoulder, and though his expression was still serious, he allowed her to see the understanding and the fatherly concern in his eyes. "Maybe a little," he admitted, but there was no reproach in his tone. "You still have Billy to think of, after all." A small smile softened his features, "but just because it's selfish doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do."

He turned to the window, watching dispassionately as a lean shadow slipped through the swinging doors of the Tavern and out onto the boardwalk. It was Tanner, no doubt about to make another of his evening rounds. With the recent troubles and both Chris and Sanchez gone, the men were taking no chances. He only wished Mary would do the same.

He watched as the tracker untied his gelding from the hitch rail along the board walk and swung easily into the saddle. A good man, Tanner, even if his past was tarnished. Over the past two years, he'd lost more than one Texas warrant with Tanner's name on it into the glowing coals of his hearth. He'd even managed to misplace a few for Standish. Those, however, were safely buried in the mounds of papers on his desktop. It never hurt to have a little extra leverage where the wily Southerner was concerned. –Not that he'd needed it. After his initial incarceration in the Four Corners jail, Standish had stayed on the straight and narrow, though he sometimes danced precariously on the edge. More surprising than anything, though, was the fact that he'd stayed at all. He wondered why. Maybe it was for the same reason that Tanner did…and Larabee… and even Mary herself. People had come to know them here. For better or worse, they were accepted for who they really were, not for what they were expected or assumed to be.

Tanner wheeled the horse and rode off down the street towards the Gem Hotel. Orrin's eyes followed him into the darkness.

"I asked Stephen once, a long time ago, why he wanted to live in this Godforsaken place. He could have gone anywhere and made a better life for you and Billy. Denver….San Francisco…he could have worked for the big papers if he wanted to, but he didn't, he came here. Do you know what he told me?"

He stared hard at Mary's reflection, dark and haunted in the newly washed surface of the window glass. She shook her head slowly, and he turned to face her with a wry smile.

"He said that this town was born for second chances. I think he was right about that." He raised his hands to her shoulders, gripping them lightly. "Stephen wouldn't have begrudged anyone a second chance –least of all his wife."

"Thank you, Orrin," Mary said quietly, dashing away the tears that threatened to flood her cheeks.

"Just promise me you'll be careful," he said, allowing the worry to show in his face. "This will likely get worse before it gets better, and not even Larabee may be able to stop it."

There was someone on his back trail. He hadn't seen anyone, or spotted any dust, but Job had paused to scent the wind just as dusk was falling. The stallion's ebony ears swiveled back and forth, scanning the darkening landscape for any sound of danger. It was then that the niggling little feeling that had ridden between his shoulder blades for most of the afternoon had blossomed full force, and Larabee had known with sudden certainty that whatever predator the black horse had sensed was not the four-legged variety.

He'd pushed as far as he'd dared into the rapidly waning sunset, stopping only to make camp when the last fading rays sank below the distant mountains, casting the world into the ethereal gray and silver tones of twilight. The temptation to keep going into the darkness was strong, but common sense was stronger. The country was rougher here. The foothills of the Organ Mountains were not truly tamed and only barely restrained by the turbulent waters of the creek. Holes and crevices that were clearly visible by day were easily concealed by the cloak of night and in the darkness, even the smallest misstep could spell death for horse and rider.

But so might staying put.

With this in mind, he decided to forgo the comfort of a fire and rolled into his blanket, taking care to keep his guns at hand. He did not sleep. Instead, he lay upon his back, his ears carefully tuned to the sounds of the night, listening for even the smallest sound that did not belong as his eyes scanned the heavens, tracking the slow movement of the stars above and calculating the passing of the hours as he contemplated his unknown pursuer.

Odds were good that it was one of the Brotherhood. Word of his purchase would have reached McAllister's ears by now, and if that sallow-faced banker was any kind of an agent, so would the news that the abandoned property they had likely counted as easy pickings was also in his name. Leo McAllister was bound to be one very unhappy man, and not the type to take this lying down. Larabee was counting on that. By the same token, he'd also been counting on being back to Four Corners by the time it was discovered what he'd been about. It was just his bad luck that McAllister's man had been walking in to deal with the old woman as he'd been walking out. No doubt that scrawny little book keeper had scurried from the Boarding house to the Land office and had scribbled out a telegram before the dust had even settled on his trail from Eagle Bend.

The sudden, absolute silence that fell across the desert cut short his musings and raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Behind him, Job snorted softly and he could almost feel the massive black body freezing with rapt attention. Chris slowly eased onto his side, scanning the moonlight terrain for signs of movement. The eerie silence intensified as all the creatures of the night stilled, straining to listen for the unknown danger that intruded upon their presence. His fingers tightened around the butt of his Colt, thumb and forefinger finding their home upon hammer and trigger as he loosened the weapon from its holster.

The first bullet struck the dirt perhaps a foot from his head, spitting sand and small stones into his face and sent him rolling for cover even as the second sang into the pile of his freshly vacated blankets. Even as he returned fire, blazing away with the Colt and reaching for the rifle he'd managed to pull with him, his mind registered the distinct difference in the sound of the shots directed at him. The first had been heavier, the rolling bark of heavy rifle –perhaps a Henry-- with a tell-tale echo that had betrayed its distance. The second had been smaller, lighter, and definitely closer. He swore to himself as he dropped the Colt and worked the action of the Winchester, jacking a round into the chamber. It was worse than he'd thought. There were two of them out there, and they had the advantage on him.

Something stirred slightly in the sagebrush perhaps a hundred yards to his right and he sighted the rifle on the small flash of silver glinting in the bush as he pulled the trigger. He was rewarded by a yelp of pain and the sound of a heavy body falling. Then silence.

The shooter had chosen his position well. It took Chris nearly ten minutes to work his way through the thicket of sagebrush towards the faint, strangled sounds that eventually faded and stopped. The body lay face down in the tiny clearing, the pale desert sand darkening with the blood that seeped from the wound in his neck. Carefully, he knelt and turned the body over. Sightless brown eyes stared up at the glittering stars above. Larabee studied the man dispassionately. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd seen him somewhere before. --Perhaps at Eagle Bend. It would come to him eventually, but he didn't have the time to worry about it now. Somewhere out there in the darkness was another shooter laying in wait.

The softest whisper of a thorn dragging across leather alerted him, and he whirled, levering another round into the rifle and fixing it upon the shadow that moved behind him. Only the voice, familiar and deep, stayed his finger upon the trigger.

"Easy Chris," Josiah Sanchez said.

"Any idea who he was?" Josiah asked a short time later as he kindled a small fire for coffee.

Larabee shook his head. "No, but it's not hard to figure who sent him."

Chris dumped a handful of coffee and a generous amount of water from his canteen into the small coffee pot then settled it into the flames. "How'd you happen across him?" he asked.

Josiah smiled grimly. "I was coming down out of the foothills on my way back from the Village when I cut his trail and saw he was followin' you." The preacher shrugged. "Figured it wouldn't hurt to lay back and keep an eye out."

"Thanks for the wake-up call," Larabee grunted.

The flames of the small fire crackled loudly between them for a moment.

"What did they say?" Chris asked when he could finally wait no longer.

Josiah's eyes, dark and fathomless met his across the flames. "They've got some thinking to do," he said at last.

Chris nodded. It was what he had expected.

"What do we do now?" Josiah asked.

Chris stared at the coffee pot, willing it to boil.

"We wait."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

It was the faint creak of the stair tread that gave him away. Inez paused beside the cook stove and raised her eyes toward the ceiling, uncertain of what she had heard. When the soft protests of the stairs continued, she turned her attention back to the thick steak she was searing to perfection and allowed a small smile to play at her lips.

Sliding the steak and two delicately poached eggs onto the tin plate beside a corn bread biscuit, she used the hem of her apron to collect the coffee pot from the stove top. Whirling towards the door, she nearly collided with the unsteady figure that leaned in the doorframe.

"Oh!" she gasped, stopping within a hairsbreadth of disaster as the boiling coffee sloshed dangerously in the pot. "Senor! You scare me!"

Ezra arched one brow. "Pray dispense with the formality, Inez. Circumstances being what they are, you likely know me now as well as my own dear mother." He scowled slightly. "--Probably better."

Inez flushed slightly and took a step back. "I –I thought you would eat out there," she said, "at your usual table."

Ezra rolled his eyes as he stepped through the doorway into the large kitchen that occupied the entire back room of the saloon. "Please," he said, making his way to the table on slightly weaving legs, "I'm hardly presentable for public display."

Inez surveyed his attire with a critical eye. He really hadn't done that badly, considering his condition. He'd somehow managed to pull on trousers and socks and stuff his feet into his boots, but the shirt must have been too much, for the clean white bandages were all that covered his upper body.

She nodded to the dark red shirt clutched loosely in his hand. "Would you like to be?"

He regarded her for a long moment, and she caught the tiniest hint of some unidentifiable expression in his face before he slowly nodded.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

She set the plate of food on the table, took the shirt from him and shook it out, then carefully eased it over his arms and across his shoulders. She couldn't help but notice the faint flush of color to his skin as she settled the garment across the back of his neck. She felt the heat in her own cheeks as well. It was one thing to bathe his wounds and change his dressings in the confines of his room, but here in the kitchen, the simple act of dressing him seemed far more intimate. She was relieved when his fingers began automatically fumbling with the buttons. She was quite certain that if she had to finish the job she would never be able to look him in the eye.

Ezra worked at the buttons with a grim determination. His usually quick and agile fingers seemed uncharacteristically awkward as he struggled to slip the small pieces of polished shell through the worn blue fabric of the shirt. Feeling Inez's gaze upon him, he offered up a small, bitter smile and flexed his fingers as he finally abandoned the task.

"Stiff," he said tersely, in response to the question in her eyes.

Inez looked at his hands and, for once, took real note of the slight swelling to his fingers and the livid, dark bruises that circled his wrists and crept up the backs of his hands. When they'd first brought him to her, she'd barely seen beyond the raw, torn meat of his back. Later, there had been infection and fever to worry about. She really hadn't given much thought to his hands. Now, looking at the blackened, greenish purple bands that circled each wrist she felt the faintest stirring of unease. He had been bound and hung by the wrists, she recalled, remembering the account Buck and JD had given her. It was little wonder his fingers looked like swollen sausages. She was only surprised, given his extensive ability for complaint, that he had not mentioned it before. She narrowed her gaze upon him, a faint suspicion growing.

"Your hands, do they bother you?"

Ezra moved to the long oak table that nearly filled the kitchen and took a seat. "Dangling from a barn rope appears to offer little towards the improvement of one's manual dexterity." He shrugged and winced, instantly regretting the gesture. "I expect it will pass."

Inez nodded. "You should get a pan of cold water from the spring soak them. It will help."

"Perhaps," Ezra said faintly, but Inez did not miss the shadow that flitted across his features. Still, she knew better than to press him. Picking up his breakfast plate from the shelf of the warming oven, she set it before him then turned back for the coffee pot. She poured his coffee with swift, economical movements. Only then did she move to fill her own plate.

Turning away from the stove, Inez glanced at the table uncertainly. She was not used to eating in his presence. Even when Ezra had lived here --back when he'd first hired her to help him with the saloon-- she'd served him at his usual table out in the tap room, and taken her meals by herself in the kitchen. It was an arrangement that they both had naturally assumed. He was the owner, she was the hired help. It was simply the way things were done. Later, when Maude had bought the place out from under him and his own stubborn pride had caused him to find lodging elsewhere, she'd served him as she would any other customer. In short, nothing had changed.

…Until now.

Ezra seemed to sense her hesitation, for he paused in the act of buttering his cornbread, his jade colored eyes locking with hers. To her relief, he said nothing. The arch of an eyebrow was his only acknowledgement of the change in their situation as she sat down at the table beside him.

They ate in a silence that was surprisingly pleasant. Neither felt the need for conversation beyond the few words required to refill their coffee cups and Inez was glad of this. In spite of his reputation, Ezra Standish was a gentleman, intelligent and well educated. She spent so much of her time trying to understand his large, eloquent words that she feared entering the verbal quicksand of a conversation with him. –Not to say that she didn't like to hear him talk. –Quite the contrary. Many a lazy afternoon she found herself unconsciously tuning in to the soft Carolina drawl as she moved among the tables …listening for words she did not know and making a game of deciphering them. When she had first come to Four Corners, her English had been good enough, but the challenge of comprehending Ezra Standish had only made it better.

Ezra, for his part, was simply enjoying the novelty of taking a meal at a table with another human being, rather than alone in the stifled confines of his sick room. His gaze fell upon Inez as she ate her breakfast with neat, efficient movements, and followed her when she rose from the table and began to move about the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes. She was an uncommon woman, he decided. He knew that she couldn't read or write, save for her name, which he'd seen her copy onto the mercantile bills with painstaking precision, but keen intellect and a sharp wit nearly made up for her lack of education. He wasn't entirely certain that she was even able to put numbers to paper, but she was capable of calculating large sums in her head and as far as he could tell, the Saloon's finances had never been in better condition. Her mental tally of the Saloon's inventory was nothing short of amazing, and at the end of the day she knew precisely how much business the Saloon had done, right down to the last glass of whiskey, bottle of beer, and plate of frijoles without putting so much as a single mark to paper. If she'd been a man, he reflected, she'd have owned this place by now.

He was rather glad she wasn't a man. He still planned to reclaim this establishment from his mother, and frankly he didn't need the competition. If Inez ever got the money together, it would be just like Maude to sell the place to her just to "keep him sharp."

A shadow of movement passed outside the window and he caught the ready smile that came to Inez's lips as she rose from the table and moved to unbolt the door. Betting man that he was, it was fortunate he had placed no wagers in this instance. Instead of Buck Wilmington standing there with hat in hand and hopeful expression, Inez stepped back to admit Vin's lean, ragged figure.

"Buenos Dias, Senor Vin," Inez said.

The tracker removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his mop of tangled brown curls. "Ma'am," Vin said politely, his eyes fixed on Inez like a shy school boy standing before the new teacher. Ezra wondered if Vin had even noticed his presence in the room. Judging from the slightly tongue-tied expression on the tracker's face, he doubted it.

He was working his way up to an acerbic observation of the matter when his own agile tongue was stilled upon his palate as Vin suddenly and without preamble pulled up a chair and seated himself at the table. Inez, to Ezra's further consternation, raised not so much as an eyebrow, but readily reached for the coffee pot, and hurried to set another steaming cup before the tracker.

Vin took a testing sip of the brew and then acknowledged Ezra's presence with a quick smile. "Mornin' Ez," he drawled easily, and then offered a tentative smile in Inez's direction as she placed a hearty helping of steak and eggs before him.

"Mr. Tanner," Ez returned, not quite able to keep the hint of suspicion from his voice as he noted the ease of routine between Vin and Inez as she moved about the kitchen.

His suspicions were confirmed when Vin looked up from his plate to ask, "How many cases do ya' reckon you'll need today?"

Inez expertly cracked another egg into the skillet and paused to consider the question. "It is Saturday, no?"

"Yep" Vin replied.

She nodded thoughtfully. "We will be busy today," she said. "I think I shall need at least a dozen."

Vin merely nodded. "You want me to take the ones out of the back shed?"

"Si," Inez said, reaching to take yet another plate down from the shelf. "I think that batch should be ready by now."

Only the heavy rattling thump of an armload of wood being dropped onto the step outside saved Ezra from the further indignity of a conversation that had wandered far beyond the reaches of his comprehension. He almost wasn't surprised when JD's wiry shadow passed before the window, and by the time the young Sheriff had brought several more armloads of wood to the back door, he believed he had the situation properly sorted out.

"Good morning, Mr. Dunne," he said, greeting JD as he slid through the back door and seated himself before the plate of food Inez had set for him.

"Hey, Ez!" JD exclaimed. "You're lookin' a lot better."

"No doubt it's the benefits of Inez's fine cooking," Ezra said, laying down his fork and shoving his empty plate aside. He drew his coffee cup near and studied his two companions reflectively. "But I obviously need not sing her praises to you two gentlemen." He swung his gaze to rest upon Inez. "If toting a little wood and a few cases of beer is all it takes to get a meal around here, then I'm surprised Buck hasn't found his way to your table," Ezra said dryly, knowing Inez's eternal exasperation with Wilmington's unwanted attentions.

JD snickered softly. "Why do you think she has us do it?"

"Indeed," Ezra mused as the pieces suddenly fell into place. He shifted in his chair and instantly regretted it as the bandages chafed against his healing skin. Still, he allowed only the mildest grimace to betray his discomfort as he shot his two colleagues a calculating look. "And just how long have you been engaging in this opportune arrangement?"

Vin and Inez hesitated slightly, as if uncertain how to take his meaning, but JD merely shrugged. "Oh, I don't know…a while I guess. You know how Buck is; sometimes he just can't take a hint. An' we figured if it helped out Inez and saved us from eatin' at the hotel…"

JD let the statement trail off to its obvious conclusion as he fought to stifle a yawn. "The only downside," he said, "is that we have to keep getting up earlier and earlier to stay ahead of Buck."

Inez made another circle of the table with the coffee pot. Ezra raised his mug, rolling a reproachful eye towards the Mexican woman as she topped off his coffee.

"Really Inez, if I'd known you were open for breakfast, I'd not have poisoned myself at Mrs. Rafferty's table these last three months."

"I did not know you took breakfast, Senor," Inez replied saucily. "I've never seen you on the street before noon."

"Hah!" JD chortled, "She's got ya there, Ez!"

"So it would appear," Ezra said, accepting the jibe with uncharacteristic good nature. He took a careful sip of his coffee and set it down. "The good lady Rafferty, however, is another matter entirely. Did you have an opportunity to speak to the Judge?"

Vin nodded. "I mentioned it to him. He said she's within her rights as landlord to turn out any tenant she chooses for any reason. On the other hand, he did mention that he'd be stopping by the bank and having them transfer the money for your past week's room and board from Mrs. Rafferty's account to Inez. He'll allow a nickel a day for her storin' your things as long as she did."

The gambler smiled, but it was not a particularly pleasant expression. "The wisdom of Solomon prevails," he observed. "I wouldn't mind seeing the look on the old crone's face when she gets that word."

JD snorted "I don't know how you put up with her as long as you did. I'd rather sleep in the livery rather than spend a night under her roof."

"I fear it may come to that," Ezra said. "I will have to engage other quarters eventually."

"Why not just stay here?" JD asked.

Ezra hesitated. He wanted to say that it was a matter of principle that prevented him from returning to his old lair, but was too well aware of the perceived irony others would find in that statement. In truth, it was more a matter of the pocket book. Their arrangement with Judge provided each of them a monthly wage of approximately $30, with an additional allowance for room and board. It was up to each man how they chose to spend that allowance. Nathan had been content to continue with his rooms rented from Yosemite. Buck, on the other hand, applied his to a variety of rooms --most of them somewhere in Maggie Devane's establishment. Chris had initially had bunked in the loft of the livery until enough was set by to purchase lumber for his hermit's shack, while Josiah had put his stipend towards repairing the church. JD had a room somewhere in the back of Wheeler's old place. God only knew what Tanner did with his money. He spent most of the year sleeping in that dispreputable freight wagon and only retreated indoors in the bitter winter months. As for Ezra, the saloon had been his chosen domicile until his mother had seen fit to upset his plans to establish it as a more permanent residence.

Initially, he had made a show of defiance by taking rooms at the Gem Hotel, but more recently he'd sacrificed luxury for economy in relocating to Mrs. Rafferty's. The rooms had been clean, though spare, but the meals had been dismal and the woman a harridan. However, he had gritted his teeth and borne both the reduced accommodations and quiet speculations upon the state of his finances by blithely ignoring it. He could well afford a few burnt potatoes and raised eyebrows. He was, after all, a man with a plan.

His mother's latest missive, received some four months past, had mentioned a great poker game to be held in Denver the coming winter. It was to be a grand, gilded affair, a high-stakes convocation of cardsharps from across the West. The buy-in was one thousand dollars. The game was all or nothing, with the ultimate prize being the one hundred thousand dollars of the combined entry stakes of the participants. Maude had urged him to come away with her, to engage in a "little fundraising tour," that they both might enter. Two players, working together, had better odds of making it to the final round and taking the pot. Fifty thousand dollars, though not as good as a hundred, was still a fortune and better than nothing at all. However, he was nothing if not his mother's son and he knew better than to take her at her word. Ultimately, complications would ensue and through some twisted series of machinations beyond the powers of human comprehension, he would find Maude holding the cards and he the bag.

Initially he had dismissed the scheme, but as with so many of his mother's plots, a small seed of an idea had begun to germinate. It was true that his mother was an incredibly resourceful woman, but it was also true that her fortunes were frequently as damnable as his own. He had little doubt that come the winter, she would be scrambling madly, still trying to raise the necessary funds to purchase a spot at those fabled tables. When she found herself short, she would come to him, and he would ready.

He would help her raise her stake, but at a price: the deed and outright ownership of the saloon. It was this decision which had led him to reduced circumstances and frugal living at Mrs. Rafferty's despicable abode, saving both wages and room allowance while he quietly accumulated his winnings from the card table. There was of course, always the risk that Maude might sell the saloon beforehand, or gamble it away in an attempt to raise the necessary capital, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. In the meantime, there was little harm in putting money away for a rainy day. His mother always had a tendency of rolling into town with a storm cloud on her heels.

None of these musings, however, were appropriate to offer as an explanation in the curious silence that had followed JD's question. He took another sip of his coffee as he scrambled for a reply. "No doubt Inez is tiring of my company," he said blandly. "She's been more than gracious in seeing me through my infirmity. I would hesitate to impose upon her any more than I already have."

Inez, setting JD's breakfast plate before him, opened her mouth to speak, but whether it was to protest or affirm, Ezra did not know. Before she could utter a word, another set of footsteps sounded on the back steps.

The Southerner's glance flicked from the window to the Mexican woman at JD's shoulder. "Perhaps you should get another plate, Inez. I expect that's Nathan come to haul your water."

Inez whisked past the table and opened the door to admit the healer, but a single look at Nathan's face told everyone that breakfast was the last thing on his mind.

Nathan's gaze shot immediately to the three seated at the table, his expression grim.

"Chris and Josiah are back," he said, "and they're packin' a body."

Vin pulled back the corner of the canvas ground sheet and gripped the corpse by a handful of greasy brown hair, raising the head to reveal a lean face with narrow, feral features.

"Know him?" Chris asked.

The tracker shook his head. "Not anybody I ever saw paper on."  
Nathan studied the man carefully, "He wasn't with the men we tangled with at Hank's place, and I never got a look at any of those at the Stage stop."

"Did ya search his pockets?" JD asked.

Josiah nodded. "His rig, too. There was nothing but an extra rifle, a change of clothes and his bedroll. No paper and no money. No brand on his horse, either."

They rolled the body to the ground and regarded it in silence as they each puzzled over the problem of the dead man's identity. After a moment Buck cursed softly and removed his hat, raking a hand through his rumpled hair. "Hell, he could be almost anybody."

"He could be," a new voice agreed faintly, "but he happens to be Sam Teale."

The six turned in unison to stare at the pale specter that had appeared in the doorway of the livery. Ezra, Chris noted, was leaning against the nearest box stall with the practiced air of lazy nonchalance, but Larabee knew that the rough wooden wall was likely the only thing holding him up. How the hell Standish had made it down here from the Saloon on his own power, he didn't know, but he wasn't about to waste time asking. Instead, Larrabee looked again at the corpse and turned the name Ezra had provided over in his mind.

"Teale," he muttered. "That rings a bell somewhere."

"Isn't there a Teale that has a store over in Watsonville?" Nathan asked.

"Yeah," Buck said his brow furrowing in thought, "been there three or four years."

"A storekeeper?" JD was incredulous. "What kind of a storekeeper would be crazy enough to take a shot at Chris?"

Ezra stared grimly at the body. "The kind that rode with Quantrill."

A cold silence fell across the group. Buck turned a hard eye to Ezra, his massive frame stiffening perceptibly at the name. "And just how in the hell would you know that?" Whether or not Buck intended it, there was a distinct edge of suspicion to his tone.

The gambler's expression never wavered, but Larabee noticed the cool, flat expression that fell behind his eyes. "We once passed a pleasant winter evening in an establishment in Tuma City. He happened to mention it." Standish said.

"One Son of the South to another?" Wilmington said dryly.

The corner of Ezra's mouth quirked ever so slightly, but there was no humor in it. "You could say that," he allowed, as he considered both the corpse and his memory. "Chris is rather fortunate to be the transporter of the body rather than the body transported. If I recall correctly, Teale was one of Quantrill's scouts. They were reputed to be quite good with rifles, every bit as good as our Mr. Tanner here. They made a game of hunting men."

"Women and children, too," Buck said darkly, fixing the gambler with a penetrating stare.

Josiah, sensing the tension that was building in the air and surmising that there was nothing to be gained from it, stared down at the dead man. "Doesn't Teale have a family?"

"A wife, I think," Chris muttered, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the knowledge that he had been the instrument of a man's death did not sit easily with him. He expelled a soft breath. "She'll need to be told."

"Judge is in town," Vin said, "I reckon we'd best tell him, too. Don't know how well the folks at Watsonville thought of Teale, but the Judge may have some fires to put out when he gets home."

Shouldering the saddle bags he'd pulled from his rig, Chris turned his back upon the dead man and faced the tracker with an intent gaze. "Where's the Judge at now?"

Tanner shrugged. "Takin' breakfast with Mary, I reckon. I saw him leave the hotel this morning headed towards the Clarion."

Chris nodded tersely and walked out of the livery.

Vin glanced down at the body. "I reckon we ought 'ta fetch Yosemite and have him boxed."

"I'll get him." Nathan offered, rubbing at his shoulder. "I was just about to head up for a fresh dressing, anyway." He cast a meaningful look in Ezra's direction. "Probably wouldn't hurt to change yours, either," he said.

"They've been duly tended," Ezra said, not eager to remove the shirt he had so painfully donned only a short while before.

"I still want to look at it," Nathan insisted. "You won't do anybody any good if you go gettin' yourself another fever."

Ezra made a small noise of acquiescence as the healer moved past him towards the small rough quarters he kept above the livery, but made no move to follow. Instead, he lingered as Vin and Josiah led away the horses. Straightening slowly, Ezra drew closer to the corpse, staring down at it with a thoughtful expression. Buck watched him, his mouth narrowing into a grim line.

"I rode against Quantrill." The softly spoken words seemed to hang suspended in -the warm, heavy air of the stable.

Ezra did not move.

"I saw what was left of Lawrence," Buck continued, a hard, dangerous edge entering his voice.

Ezra did not speak.

"It wasn't just men we buried," Buck growled. "There were women and children in those graves."

Only the cold, flat expression that suddenly fell across the steady green gaze acknowledged the accusation in the tone.

"Really, Buck, I had no idea you held such tendencies for morbid reminisces," the genteel southern drawl seemed to deepen as he spoke, and his voice took on a harder edge. "Or is there something in particular you wish to insinuate?"

Buck's gaze flickered back to the corpse. "I traded with Teale a time or two. He wasn't the type to go flappin his jaw. –Most men who rode with Quantrill still have a price on their head." Wilmington's voice grew deadly soft. "It makes me wonder."

"Indeed," The gambler said dryly, arching one auburn brow.

"Teale didn't seem much of a talker. Why would he bother to tell you?"

The gambler smiled coolly. "Gaining the confidence of others is crucial vocational skill in my line of work."

Buck seemed far from appeased. "You know, Ezra, I don't think you've ever said what you did during the war."

Ezra seemed to contemplate this for a long moment. "No," he said at last, "I don't believe that I have."

Buck's face darkened with barely contained rage. "Damn it! Why don't you drop all the fancy double talk and quit beatin' around the bush? You know damned well what I'm askin' you!"

The Southerner's tone was frosty. "Then by all means, Buck, quit perambulating around the shrubbery and _ask_."

A long, tense silence stretched between them.

"Just what did you do during the war, Ezra?"

The gambler smiled. It was a faint, sour expression, without the least trace of humor. "I did what I had to do, just as you did. –Not that it matters now. The war is over." Ezra said coolly.

"Is it?" Buck retorted, jerking his head from Teale's body to the direction of the Clarion, where fragments of paper and charred lumber still littered the street. "From where I stand, it looks like the same fight to me."

The Southerner cast a dark glance towards the corpse, then turned to face the street. He spent a long moment staring at the pale gray buildings huddled together along the muddy, rutted track of the main street. To JD, who had been observing the byplay like a spectator at a squash match, it seemed as if Standish was measuring the town, weighing its value in his soul …and was finding it wanting.

"No," Ezra said at last, an odd note in his voice that JD could not quite define. "It's not the same fight at all."

JD, realizing the dangerous undercurrent of the conversation, leapt forward. The protest burst from his lips before he was even fully sure of what he was going to say.

"Ezra, wait! Buck didn't mean… I mean, Buck wasn't saying that…" he broke off, casting a helpless glance from Wilmington to the southerner and felt a bubble of panicked laughter well up inside him as he took in the big man's stony gaze. "I mean, come on, Buck, you don't really think…." His voice trailed away in the silence that stretched between the two men.

He glanced from one to another and drew a deep breath, grasping for a calm he did not feel. "You're acting like Ezra is the enemy here."

Buck's expression was dark. "Once upon a time, he was."

"Yeah, a long time ago, but not now!" JD exclaimed. "What happened then doesn't matter. Things are different now. We're different."

"Are we?" Buck's voice was deathly soft. "I like to know the measure of a man I ride with. Seems like Ezra here is the only one that can still surprise me."

A small grim smile tugged at the edge of Ezra's mouth. "It would seem that cuts both ways, Mr. Wilmington."

The gambler quickly turned to go, but then paused on the threshold of the barn and shifted to look back. His gaze flashed from Buck to the corpse before finally coming to rest upon JD. Then he looked back to the street, both face and voice devoid of expression as he spoke. Only stiff formality of his words revealed the anger that burnt within him.

"Live long enough, Mr. Dunne, and I believe you will discover that there are many things a man can do in his life of which he cannot be proud. It is possible that I have done them all, but I am glad to say that I have never been to Lawrence."

Then, like the magician JD sometimes thought him to be, he vanished.

JD rounded on Buck, his blood boiling with an outrage he had never thought to feel towards the man. "What in the hell is wrong with you! Are you crazy! You just as much as accused Ezra of being one of them!"

"Leave it alone, kid." Buck growled, "you don't know anything about it."

"Why?" JD demanded, "Because I wasn't there?"

"Yeah," Buck said shortly, "Because you weren't there."

"Yeah, well, maybe not," JD agreed nodding angrily, "but I've been here, and I've seen enough to know Ezra isn't capable of doing anything like that."

"You don't know what Ezra is capable of –or any man for that matter!" Buck spat. "You've never been to war, JD. You've got no idea what it can do to a man –that much killin'…and dyin' …it can make you do things you'd never think you were possible."

"What about you, Buck?" JD said softly. "Did you those kinds of things?"

The swift, shuttered expression that dropped across Buck's features was all the answer JD needed, but he didn't flinch from it. Instead, he nodded grimly.

"You're right," he said quietly, "I've never been to war. I was six years old when the war broke out. Mostly it was just something folks talked about, or read in the papers. To me, it was just a lot of crying women and a lot of men in the neighborhood who went away and never came back, so I don't know what it was like."

JD paused and drew another breath. "But you're wrong about Ez. I _do_ know what he's capable of. I've watched him stand and fight when every self-preserving bone in his body has got to be screaming for him to run away, but he's always been there when it mattered."

"Or cause it served his purpose," Buck growled.

JD shook his head. "You're wrong, Buck. He might be a cheat, and he'd sell his own mother if he thought there was enough profit in it, but he's not evil." JD jerked his head to indicate the stiffening body on the floor. "That's evil. That and what's happening out there."

Buck said nothing. JD shook his head at the larger man's glowering expression.

"You say like to know the measure of a man you ride with? --Well so do I, and let me tell you, it ain't Ezra I'm wonderin' about."

The younger squatted down beside corpse, a troubled expression burning in his brown eyes. "You know what really bothers me?."

Buck expelled a long breath, suddenly feeling old, and tired and deflated. How the hell had he gotten himself into this rattler pit anyway? It had started out to be such a pleasant morning when he'd woken up in Maggie Devane's back room with Daisy sprawled all over him like a big tawny cat. Then he'd gotten up and it had all gone to hell.

He rubbed at the back of his aching neck. Obviously that had been his mistake: He never should have gotten out of bed. He shot JD a weary look "No, Kid," he said gruffly. "Tell me, what bothers you?"

JD picked up a corner of the canvas tarp and flipped it back over the body, then rose to his feet. "The fact that these guys have got us questioning each other," he said quietly. His voice was dark, serious, and oddly older than his twenty years.

"Buck, if we can't trust each other after all this time, then we're in more trouble than I thought."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

The town was coming alive to greet the day. The rattle of a door somewhere up the street caught Ezra's attention and he followed the sound to Potter's store. Gloria Potter pushed the tall double doors of her mercantile wide, propping them open with a barrel of new broomsticks and a crate of fresh pears. The storekeeper's widow bustled back inside in search of more wares with which to lure in prospective customers, and Ezra took the opportunity to duck across the street and down the alley between the Undertaker and the Post Office.

The back street offered little respite. Smoke was already rising from the tent encampment of Wu's laundry. He saw a few slim figures moving back and forth between the steaming outdoor vats as they tended to the fires, but they paid him little notice. He hurried on past the loading dock of Watson's hardware store and around the corner of the Barber Shop until he reached the blessed haven of the Saloon's back door.

He paused for a moment, sheltering beneath the stairs that descended down the outside of the building as he struggled to regain his composure. He wasn't sure what stung worse, the raw mess of his back, or Buck's implied accusation.

He closed his eyes, willing away the old, sick feeling and shoved back the memories, the sharp, sulfurous smell of the gunpowder mixed with the tang of smoke and blood. He drew in one long, ragged breath and focused upon the soft sounds of the town coming to life around him, driving back the agony that echoed in his head, the screams of dying horses and dying men. As a rule, he did not talk about the war, because he did not like to think about it. What had begun with one kind of hell had ended in another, and when he had crossed the Missouri that fateful August night, it might as well have been the Rubicon. He had pointed his horse west and known that he would never return.

When he felt the iron bands of his self control returning, he spared a quick darting gaze up and down the empty side street. Assuring himself that he would not be noticed, Ezra circled around to the front of the building and began to climb the exterior staircase, his hand gripping awkwardly at the railing. He flexed his unresponsive fingers and frowned. Perhaps he' deal himself a hand of cards, he thought, solitaire or La Belle Lucy. The simple mechanics of shuffling and dealing would stretch his fingers and soothe his mind.

First McAllister and now Teale… the past was truly coming back to haunt him. He felt the nervous, edgy feeling scrape along the periphery of his senses. He doubted either man would have remembered him. It had been so long ago, a different time, a different place… a different name. Even so, Buck's inquisition had been more than enough to unsettle him.

But he hadn't lied, he told himself. Not completely, anyway.

He had never been to Lawrence.

8888

Josiah sank upon weary knees before the simple altar and bowed his head. Allowing his mind to float free, he attempted to channel his worried and restless thoughts into something that resembled prayer. He should pray, he knew. A man was dead. That it was a man who apparently had both wife and family didn't make it rest any easier, nor did the fact that he was at least partly responsible for it. Still, he could not muster much regret or repentance. Had he followed another course, it might be Chris Larabee he would have been praying for, rather than the lost soul that Ezra had named as Sam Teale.

Ezra…. There was something going on with Ezra, though he couldn't put his finger on it. That was the trouble with Ezra, he always knew just a little more than he would say, and he wasn't likely to reveal anything unless it was to his benefit. Whatever else there was that he knew about Sam Teale –and Josiah suspected there was something—getting it out of Ezra was going to be like pulling teeth after the way Buck had jumped him.

_Lord, look after Ezra. Help him to heal and find the way back to the path of righteousness…_

It wasn't like Buck to fly off the handle so readily, either. He was generally more easy going, but the very mention of Quantrill had been enough to set Wilmington's hair trigger. He supposed it wasn't really a surprise. He'd known Buck was from Kansas originally. It would have made sense that he'd have joined the militia to defend his home territory during the war. The news of the Lawrence massacre had made all the papers at the time, including the dog-eared copy that had somehow found it's way into the bottom of a packing crate at the peaceful temple monastery where Josiah had sequestered himself during those years. He still remembered the headline from that yellowed article… a bloody harvest… men and boys cut down among the corn…. He shook his head. If Buck had actually ridden into the aftermath of that bloody raid, then it was no wonder the mere mention of Quantrill would have made him that angry. Experiences like that left scars that were deep and indelible.

_Lord, help Buck to forgive…and be forgiven…_

Of course, Buck wasn't the only one needing help on that count. This whole mess had stirred up a dark wind in Larabee's soul, and Josiah could sense the beginnings of the storm that was brewing inside the man. It was the burnt homesteads that had triggered it, of course, but the attack on the Clarion had driven it home in a way that he doubted anyone could have anticipated, least of all Chris Larabee himself.

Chris had always been a hard man to figure. At first glance, he didn't appear to give a damn about anything beyond where the next drink was going to come from, but once you chipped away at the blackened veneer of his soul, you could see that he did care, and deeply. It was hard to imagine the grim, aloof figure that stalked the streets as a husband or father, but a body see how that kind of loss could turn a simple rancher with a hell-raising past into the dark, cold-eyed killer that was now Chris Larabee. Somewhere beneath howling pain, the guilt, the anger and the death that followed it, fragments of that other man still lurked. You just never knew when or where they would appear. It was often only flashes: a brilliant, boyish smile offered to a prostitute, an unexpected jibe traded with Buck, or a spur of the moment decision to take Billy Travis fishing. Whatever it was, it was a small spark of sunlight in the darkness that the gunman exuded, and anyone who knew Chris well enough took pleasure in those rare moments whenever they could be found.

There were times, though, when the broken pieces of that other man surfaced like bloody shards of glass and the simple raw pain of it was too much to look upon. He'd seen it in the wild-eyed lunatic who'd torn up the bar in Purgatorio screaming for Fowler to come out in play. He'd heard it in Larabee's howl of anguished rage as the killer had run back into the collapsing wreckage of the burning barn, taking both vengeance and answers with him. Later, there had been that unholy, twisted little side-job in which they'd taken on a job protecting Chris's former paramour, Ella Gaines, only to discover that she had been the one who'd hired Fowler to kill Chris's wife and son. When it was finally over, he'd wondered if there was anything left of the man Chris Larabee once had been.

Chris had spent the first week of his recuperation sitting on the boardwalk wrapped in his blanket, speaking to no one. It was only by chance that Josiah, pausing to tie his horse in front of the mercantile, had happened to witness the arrival of that last letter from Ella Gaines and the odd, stilted exchange between Chris and Mary Travis. He'd seen the look that had crossed Mary's features when that photograph of Chris and Ella had slipped from the folded page, and he'd heard Chris call after Mary. It was practically the first word anyone had heard the man utter in three days, and though he was not one to eavesdrop, it had caught his attention. As it turned out, there was nothing to overhear, for whatever Chris had thought to say, he did not say it, and Mary had gone back in to the Clarion without another word. Still, he'd been close enough to see the expression on the gunman's face, and if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought it to be regret.

It was hard to say what, if anything lay between Chris and the widow Travis. They were both smart, spirited, determined individuals who each in their own way relished a good fight. They were also both deeply scarred by their pasts. In the last two years they had formed an alliance of sorts. It was a vague kind of friendship that was based upon respect, shared ideals, and –not infrequently—mutual exasperation. It might well have become something more, had they not been so wary of each other. Given all that they'd been through together, and all that they knew of each other, Josiah frankly hadn't understood the reason for that wariness…until the night the Clarion had almost burned.

Chris had come out of the newspaper office with both guns blazing, but when the shooting had stopped and the riders vanished, he'd turned back to look for Mary and Josiah had seen the man's features, lit in the few small flames that had still licked at the window. Larabee's face had been ghost-white and there was no denying the intensity of the emotion in his eyes. Even unspoken, and rigidly contained, Josiah knew sheer terror when he saw it, and in that instant, he realized that Chris Larabee must be reliving a horror that he had previously only been able to imagine. Perhaps there was more between the gunman and the pretty newspaper woman than anyone imagined, but whatever it was, it had been enough to send Chris off to stir the hornets nest.

That alone bothered Josiah. It was not like Chris to go looking for trouble in these situations. He generally preferred to stand his ground and let it come to him, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later it would come back. Of course Chris did occasionally ride off to Purgatorio when he had a burr under his blanket, but that was different. That was personal. It was more a form of self-punishment than anything else. Chris had ridden off alone this time, too, but to Eagle Bend instead of Purgatorio. It made Josiah suspect that the motives for this expedition were personal as well, but he didn't think it was guilt that spurred the gunman this time. It was fear.

_Not that fear is a bad thing, Lord. Help Chris to use it wisely. He's afraid he won't be there this time …that he won't be able to stop it, and maybe he won't. Maybe we won't. But if that's the case Lord, don't let it paralyze him. Help him to use his fear, Lord. Fear can strengthen a man._

Then there was Mary to think about. It was a hard thing, a woman alone with a boy to raise in a country like this. She had more than enough breaks against her without adding her name to the hit list of these faceless men. The trouble with Mary was, when she knew she was right she wouldn't back down. If this kept up, she would continue to speak out against it. There would be more fiery editorials from the Clarion, and there would be more fiery riders coming after her. He had an idea of what Chris was up to. He was looking for something, anything to draw these men away from town, away from Mary. It wasn't necessarily a bad idea, but it could be risky if they didn't take the bait. Splitting their force was a bad tactical move. In a fight like this, it would have to be all or nothing, and if Chris chose wrong… Well, it just didn't bear thinking about.

_Look after this town, Lord. Look after Mary. Keep her safe. I don't think he can stand to lose everything again…_

Mary wasn't the only one in need of looking after. Ezra, Nathan, JD… none of them were one hundred percent. Ezra was pretty much out of the fight for the foreseeable future. Nathan's arm was healing, but it was still plenty sore and JD? Well, the kid had shambled down the street this morning with a gait that was a lot closer to ninety than nineteen.

_Give us strength, Lord, to stand against this enemy. Protect us and preserve us in the fight that is to come._

It would help of course, if they really knew who it was they were fighting, rather than a bunch of faceless ghosts. Oh, they had an idea, they had a name or two, but nothing they could take before the Judge to stand in a court of law. Not that proving anything was the real concern at the moment. The real concern was not knowing if the man standing next to you at the bar, the man walking past you on the street, the man selling you a pound of coffee over his store counter, might not be the man who would shoot you in the back in the middle of the night. Vin had been scouting the country and keeping a wary eye for much of the past three days, but it was hard to spot anything unusual when you didn't know who you were looking for. He'd been watching the tracks, coming in and out of town, looking for the red roan gelding with the long stride and the crooked foot, but he hadn't seen it. Likewise, Judge Travis had had little more to report on either Detweiler or McAllister when he'd arrived on last night's stage. Though McAllister traveled in high political circles, little was known of his close associates. The trail seemed cold on every front.

_Sustain Vin in his vigilance, Lord. Help us to find them before they strike again…_

He opened his eyes, his mind suddenly devoid of thought, though the restlessness remained. He couldn't think of anything or anyone else to pray for. He stared for a long moment at the rough wooden cross upon the altar. That was the trouble with prayer, he thought. Even when it cleared your mind, it didn't make you any easier about the trouble you were in.

The preacher expelled a long, slow breath. After all these years, he should know better than to brood about it. No amount of praying ever persuaded the Almighty to fix your problems for you. Rather, He expected you to fix your problems for _Him._ Irony, that, but then from what he could see, the Creator was great believer in irony.

When nothing else came to him, he reluctantly crossed himself and prepared to rise. He had the niggling thought that he'd forgotten something or someone, but knew it would come to him later.

It came sooner than expected.

A soft rap echoed on the front doors of the church and he turned to see Nathan's anxious figure hovering on the stoop. Glad as he often was of the man's company, he'd rather have delayed this particular visit. Nathan would be wanting word of Rain, and for the life of him, Josiah did not know what to tell him. Pulling himself slowly to his feet he cast his eyes heavenward one final time.

"Lord, help me," he muttered fervently, and then turned to open the door.

8888

Orrin Travis sighed and pushed back the plate of cooling bacon and eggs, his appetite waning in the light of the news Larabee had brought him.

"Sam Teale," he said slowly, his tone regretful. "I'd never have thought it. Evie's bought her dry goods from the man for years." He shook his head, his expression grim. "This won't go over well back home in Watsonville. A lot of folks liked Teale."

Chris said nothing, fully aware of the uncomfortable position in which this turn of events had placed the Judge. He watched silently as the older man extracted a cigar from his breast pocket and extracted a small, sharp gentleman's knife with which to clip it.

"There will likely be a demand for an inquiry," Travis said, trimming the end off the cigar and returning the knife to his boot. "You have any evidence to back you up?"

Chris shook his head. "Just my word and Josiah's and a bullet in my bedroll the same caliber as Teale's rifle."

Travis sighed. "In times like these, that may not be enough. I've argued enough cases in my day to know how easy it is to turn testimony. Folks will be just as likely to believe you and Sanchez shot and killed an innocent man and blew a hole in your own blankets to cover it up as they would that a well-known storekeeper tried to assassinate you while you slept."

Larabee said nothing. He knew well enough his uneasy reputation. He had, after all, spent the better part of the last five years making it. At the end of the day, he really didn't give a damn what anyone might believe of him save the men he rode with and, oddly enough, the man seated across the table from him. He wasn't certain what it was about Orrin Travis that had drawn him to a job he hadn't wanted in a town he hadn't particularly cared to linger in. Still, there was a steel in the old man that he'd had to respect and an air of command that he'd found himself following in spite of his best intentions to resist.

The judge lit the cigar and drew deeply on it for a moment as he considered the situation. He exhaled a brief puff of smoke and sighed. "It's a dangerous game you're playing," he said quietly. "If Teale's any indication, then it will be difficult to say who you're up against. It could be anyone –the Sherriff in Yellow Butte, the post master in Ridge City," he nodded towards the bustle of activity outside the small window of Mary's living quarters that looked out onto the side street. "For all we know, Old Man Watson could be one of them."

Chris smiled wryly. "I doubt that. He's a dyed in the wool Yankee."

Travis shook his head. "Still doesn't change the facts. They can hide in plain sight. You can't. –Neither can Mary." He cast a meaningful glance to the new wainscoting that had been patched in along the fire scarred woodwork and the press, which was still spread in several pieces around the room awaiting new parts.

A grim expression crossed the gunman's dark face. "I can't tell her what to print, Judge. It's her newspaper. She's got a mind of her own when it comes to that."

"So did my son," Travis grunted. "It got him killed. I'd rather not see my grandson become an orphan."

"I can't do much about it if we don't know who they are," Chris said grimly. "What did you find out about Leon McAllister?"

"He appears to be a rather powerful man with a somewhat undetermined past," Travis said mildly. "A great favorite with the Territorial Governor, as it happens."

Chris scowled. That was not good news, especially when one considered the fact that Mary had been very nearly killed last year by a paid assassin hired by the Territorial Governor to silence her forthright editorials supporting statehood.

"Mary said he came from Mississippi. She told me he was one of the pro-southern radicals looking to rebuild the Old South in the western territories."

Travis nodded. "He's not alone, either. That Colonel you boys ran up against a couple years back was just one of many."

The judge took another puff of the cigar as he warmed to his subject. "There were several renegade Confederate officers that took their men and fled to exile in Mexico rather than surrender. Leon McAllister was one of them. For awhile there was even a colony of Confederate exiles living near Veracruz. Sterling Price, McAllister's old commander was the head of it."

Chris frowned. "As in General Sterling Price?"

"The same," Travis confirmed.

"Price was a Missourian. McAllister was from Mississippi. Mary told me he'd served under Beauregard, not Price."

"He served with both of them," Travis said. "From what I've gathered, McAllister enlisted with Beauregard, but later transferred to the western forces and ended up serving with Price. He was with Price at Pilot Knob and Westport when they tried to retake Missouri. They were driven back to Texas, and from there they took what was left of their men and fled to Mexico."

Travis drew deeply on the cigar and expelled another cloud of blue white smoke as he continued. "When the Veracruz colony went under, Price went back home to Missouri. He died a few years ago. McAllister stayed. He enlisted with Maximilian served another eight years in the Mexican army. He returned to the territories last year. He's been making inroads with the Territorial Governor to oppose the statehood issue ever since."

"It would make sense," Chris said slowly, "if McAllister figured on cutting the territory out to be its own country, rather than a state."

"You'd think they'd have learned the folly of that the last time," Travis said. "If the Southern states weren't strong enough to secede from the Union, I don't know how they'd think a territory could get away with it."

"They might figure a territory's different," Chris observed. "It's not a part of the union to begin with."

Travis nodded. "It did work for Texas… for a while."

"Missouri," Chris murmured, a stray, intangible feeling worrying at the corner of his mind.

"What?"

"Missouri," Chris said again. "General Price was from Missouri, and McAllister was with him on that last Missouri raid."

"What of it?" the judge asked.

Chris straightened in his chair as he mentally fitted the pieces into place. "Sam Teale was from Missouri, too."

Travis fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze. "Was he? I don't recall as I ever heard him mention it."

"He mentioned it to Ezra," Chris said. "According to Standish, Sam Teale rode with Quantrill as one of his scouts. Nearly all of Quantrill's men were from Missouri. In fact, I seem to recall hearing that Quantrill started out serving under Price in the Missouri Guard before he went partisan."

Travis frowned. "You think there's a connection?"

Chris shrugged. "Could be. Could be just coincidence, too."

Travis turned back towards the window, deep in thought. "How did Standish come to know this?"

"Says Teale told him one night when they both got deep in the liquor."

The judge scowled. "Most of Quantrill's men still have a bounty on their head. A man would have to be pretty deep in his cups to let slip with something like that."

"Ezra does have his ways," Chris said mildly.

Travis turned back from the window to face Chris. "You believe him?" he asked, bluntly.

Chris tilted his head as he considered the question. "About Teale? Yes."

"But?" Travis prompted, recognizing that there was much unspoken in that response.

"Ezra never tells all he knows," Chris said, "let alone how he came to know it."

Travis took another puff on the cigar, inhaling deeply to rekindle the smoldering fire. "I first crossed tracks with Ezra Standish, in Fort Laramie in '65, just before the war was over. There was a stack of wanted posters on him all the way there from Abilene for fraud."

Chris said nothing.

Travis expelled another soft cloud of smoke. "For a lot of men fleeing the war, Kansas was a short ride from Missouri."

Chris said nothing.

"What do you suppose he did during the war?" The Judge asked softly, wondering around.

Rising from the table, Chris picked up his hat. "Same as the rest of us, I reckon," he said, fitting the black flat brim low over his brow. "He did what he had to."

888

_May 1__st__, 1863_

_Spring Hill, Tennesee_

"General? There's a feller here to see you. Says you sent for him."

A soft, feminine giggle was stifled as an irritable male voice replied. "Well? Who is it?"

Ezra presented himself in the opening of the parlor door and snapped a smart salute. "Captain Smith, sir, reporting as requested."

A slim womanly shape darted away through the door at the far end of the parlor as Major General Earl VanDorn peered around the edge of the rocking chair drawn close to the hearth and studied his visitor carefully.

"Captain Smith," the General hesitated as he selected his words. "I would say you are out of uniform, but that would not appear to be an entirely accurate statement." He smiled at Ezra's attire. "Frankly, I'm astounded you had the nerve to walk through camp."

Ezra glanced down at the soiled and bloodstained sky blue trousers and the dark blue sack coat that he wore. He returned his gaze to the General, now rising from the rocker to approach him.

"Well," he allowed, "I did have the benefit of an escort. My apologies, Sir, I have only just returned from reconnaissance."

Van Dorn nodded. "I see." He walked a slow circle around Ezra, taking in the standard, Federal issue carbine sling from which a well-worn .56 caliber Sharps hung. He reached out and fingered the gleaming carbine.

"I don't suppose you were fortunate enough to secure any rounds for that weapon?"

Ezra shook his head. "Alas, no. The man I took it from suffered fatal depletion of his cartridge box, but I imagine with a little ingenuity some adequate rounds can be fabricated."

"Indeed," Van Dorn replied. "The Sharps is a fine weapon. Five rounds per minute to the three our boys usually get with a musketoon." He shook his head. "Give me a battalion of those, and I'd have given Sam Grant plenty more to think aboutat Vicksburg."

"Yes sir," Ezra replied, still not entirely certain of the purpose of this meeting.

Van Dorn moved towards the sideboard where a crystal decanter sparkled tantalizingly in the firelight. "Bourbon, Captain Smith?"

Ezra nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Van Dorn poured healthy measures of amber liquid into two cut crystal tumblers and handed one to Ezra, then waved him to a chair beside the fire.

Unhooking the Sharps from the leather sling, Ezra propped the weapon beside the hearth and took a seat across from the General. Van Dorn returned to his rocker and brought the bourbon to his lips, taking a meditative swallow before speaking.  
"Your reputation precedes you, Smith. You have come to me very highly recommended."

Ezra took a sample of his own drink. It burned with liquid fire from his lips to his stomach. He would have preferred whiskey, but when in Tennesee… He set the glass down carefully. "Might I ask by whom?"

"Colonel Keppler, for one," Van Dorn replied. "He's spoken admirably of both your scouting abilities and your… other talents."

Talents, Ezra thought mildly, which typically involved sneaking across Union lines and into Federal encampments to gather information. His representation of an Irish brogue was improving rapidly with use these last few weeks. Thank God for the immigrants flooding the Federal ranks. He'd likely have been caught long before now if it hadn't been for his ability to bury his Southern accent in the lilting Irish inflections.

"Ben McCullough also seemed to hold you in some esteem," Van Dorn added casually.

Ezra sobered at the thought of Brigadier General Ben McCullough, killed more than a year ago scouting enemy positions at Elkhorn Tavern –or Pea Ridge—as the Yankees called it. "And I him," he said quietly. "We'd have held the day at Elkhorn Tavern were it not for his loss."

"We'd have held Arkansas," Van Dorn said gruffly.

The General reached for the cigar left smoldering on a saucer at his right hand and drew several deep puffs to rekindle its glow. He expelled his breath in a long blue cloud of smoke.

"I should have listened to him when he advised me not to march on St. Louis," Van Dorn grumbled, "the only success we had in that whole damnable campaign was thanks to his reconnaissance. It makes me wonder what else he was right about."

"Sir?" Ezra said carefully, sensing that the General was carefully circling to the heart of the matter.

Van Dorn considered the neat ash that was building on the tip of the cigar. "If I recall correctly, Captain, you played a key role in General McCullough's intelligence gathering efforts for the St. Louis expedition, did you not?"

"Yes sir," Ezra replied, though he sincerely wondered if Van Dorn would consider three months pretense of whoring, drinking and gambling his way up and down the Mississippi river from Helena to St. Louis as "intelligence gathering."

It was one of the very few times in the last two years that he had actually assumed his own identity, and not one of the numerous aliases he generally operated under. Ezra Standish had been well known on the riverboats that traveled between St. Louis and New Orleans before the war, and given his occupation it was easy enough for those acquainted with him to assume his patriotic and political principles would not be strong enough to lure him away from the gaming tables. It was both a quirk of fate and temperament that had caused him to enlist under a fictitious name. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.

"I believe you were also at Wilson's Creek?"

Ezra nodded. "I served under General McCullough's command from the time he set up his Headquarters at Little Rock and established the Army of the West."

"Then you will also know Sterling Price?"

Ezra hesitated, suddenly wary. He was starting to get a small inkling of where Van Dorn was going with this. He wasn't sure that he liked it. "Only by reputation," he said at last. "I confess I never had the honor of meeting General Price in person, though I did occasionally interact with members of his command."

"And what was your opinion of his command?"

Ezra was silent for a long moment as he designed a tactful answer. "Outside of my training with General McCullough's forces, I have little experience with military matters, sir. I would hesitate to offer an opinion."

Van Dorn snorted. "Ben McCullough had no such reservations. He said Price's Missouri Guard was an undisciplined disaster."

"They did not conform with General McCullough's standards of military order," Ezra allowed.

The Major General, overall commander of the Western Army of the Confederate States of America, took several moments to meditate upon this response as he finished his cigar. Stubbing out what remained of his smoke in the china saucer he had been using for an ashtray, he leaned back in his chair and fixed his piercing dark gaze upon Ezra.

"I will be direct with you, Captain Smith," he said. "The Arkansas campaign has been a disaster. We need a victory in the West and we need very soon. With the Federal forces entrenched so heavily up and down the Mississippi and Grant's forces pushing from the East, we find ourselves between the proverbial rock and hard place."

Ezra nodded. None of this was news. Between the camp gossip and the papers holding forth upon every major engagement from here to Virginia like scorekeepers at a croquet match, the dire tactical situation of the Confederate forces was hardly a state secret.

"General Price has advanced a proposal which is rapidly gaining some support both among our command staff and back in Charleston. He seems to feel that raid upon Missouri would allow us to punch through the western line and outflank the Federal forces. He believes that he can capture several key installations which the Yankees now hold. If we can take those positions, we can turn the tables and control the Mississippi."

Ezra frowned. "A bold plan," he murmured, "and risky. The Federals are deeply entrenched along both sides of the river and throughout much of Missouri and Arkansas. It is likely that many of those installations General Price wishes to capture are both heavily fortified and serving as major Federal supply depots. They will have plenty of reinforcements at hand, while our raiding force would be necessarily light. We would have to count heavily on the element of surprise."

"One of Price's officers, Colonel McAllister, believes he has a solution that may even the odds somewhat. McAllister wishes to provide support to the partisan forces that are raiding the border towns between Kansas and Iowa. He believes that if they can apply enough pressure on the civilian population, then the Federal forces will be forced to intervene. If his band of undisciplined Missouri renegades can successfully distract the Yankees, then it is possible that his raid upon Missouri might succeed."

Ezra arched one auburn brow. "With all due respect, sir, 'might' is a very long way from a certainty."

Van Dorn smiled. It was a dark, fleeting expression. "That, Captain Smith, is where you come in. I am sending you to Missouri to make contact with these partisan forces of which General Price speaks. I want your full and unvarnished assessment of their strength and capabilities. I also want your recommendations of how they might best be applied in order to ensure General Price's success."

"And if I do not find them capable of such an undertaking?"

Van Dorn was silent for a long time. "These are desperate times, Captain Smith. We are becoming desperate men. Whatever you find in Missouri, I suggest you find a way to ensure that General Price's campaign will prove successful."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Vin urged the black gelding down the slippery bank of the wash and drew up on the reins, forcing the animal to keep his head up and his feet beneath him as the horse scrambled for footing in the greasy clay that sucked and slid beneath steel shod hooves. Reaching the bottom of the wash that was little more than a dry gully ten months of the year and a raging torrent the other two, Vin expelled a small breath as he straightened in his saddle and eased up on the reins. He wasn't, as a rule, much given to cussing, but he was sorely tempted to take to it today.

It had been almost a week since Chris and Josiah had come back to town, packing Sam Teale's body behind them. Three days of Buck brooding and Nathan grumbling and two more of JD pacing restlessly up and down the boardwalks as nothing more developed than nerves. Josiah, surprisingly, had kept himself scarce and no one had seen hide nor hair of Ezra. The tension in the town and amongst the seven had risen in slow degrees until it had finally become too much for Vin to bear. He now found himself saddling up every morning and riding endless circles on the excuse of scouting for tracks and trouble. Mostly, though, he was looking to escape the noticeable air of oppression that had descended over the town. Only Larabee had seemed unaffected, going on about his business in his own dark and quiet way. Still Vin sensed that the man was waiting, just like the rest of them. The only difference, he thought grimly, was that Larabee likely knew what they were waiting for.

Well, he allowed, that wasn't exactly true. After riding out to the scene of the shooting with Chris, Josiah, Yosemite and old man Watson, reading the fading tracks upon the landscape and comparing it to Larabee's stark narrative, the Judge had ruled the shooting of Sam Teale as self-defense. Travis had left town the next day, riding out along side of Ike Deavers, the teamster he'd hired to drive Teale's body back to his widow in Watsonville. With his departure the town had settled into an uneasy silence that was not relieved by Larabee's taciturn mood. –Not that Vin blamed him. Chris was just waiting for the same thing they all were: Leon McAllister's next move. Vin had a feeling it wouldn't be long in coming.

He'd been circling north of town when he'd cut the familiar track of the big red horse with the crooked front foot. He'd followed the trail for a quarter mile before it had descended down into this gully than ran along the eastern edge of town, coming out into a small dip just south of the small stream where the Chinese drew water for their back street laundry. The damp clay dried up considerably as he reached the mouth at the far end, and the tracks along with it. Still, there were just enough faint impressions left in the earth for him to tell that the red horse had not been alone. Dismounting, he let the reins trail as he squatted down to examine the tracks. A shod horse, though not a local one, for he would have recognized Yosemite's handiwork. Not as large as crooked foot, he thought, the animal had been of average height, perhaps fifteen hands, but with a good clean stride.

He followed the newcomer's tracks along the bank and up the ridge, pausing to carefully examine the brush through which the second horse had passed. Careful examination revealed a broken twig and a few strands of coarse black hair. It narrowed the field somewhat, but not much. Bay, black or buckskin, he thought, though the percentages leaned towards bay.

From what Vin could see, the two men had talked for a while, for there was a quantity of cigarette stubs littering the ground beside the creek. Then the man on the red horse had put his mount into the water, likely to ride downstream a ways and pick up the well-used wagon trail back to Eagle Bend. Likewise, the other rider had turned his horse and ridden back to town, probably folding his tracks into the multitude that traveled up and down the main streets of town.

Vin squatted back on his heels, considering the situation. As time went by, he was starting to get a feel for crooked foot's rider. A man who took care of his horse, and though not seasoned as some western men, a man careful enough riding through country not well known to him. A former soldier, perhaps scout, but not necessarily a tracker. He'd left too much sign for that. As for the other….an unknown rider on a nondescript horse had ridden out from town to meet Crooked Foot's rider. Well, a body didn't need two guesses to figure what they were talking about now, did he?

Getting to his feet, Vin walked back to Peso and gathered up the reins, swinging into the saddle in one easy stride. He considered following the stream bed for a while, trying to pick up the roan's trail, but thought of Ezra and Nathan, and the latest incident with Chris and Sam Teale, and decided against it. Things being what they were these days, riding out alone might just be an invitation to more trouble than he wanted to borrow. Touching the gelding with his heel, Vin turned the horse and headed back to town.

He found Larabee thirty minutes later, sitting in a chair outside the saloon with a glass in his hand and a half-bottle of whiskey on an overturned nail-keg beside him. Riding up to the hitch rail, Tanner swung down from the saddle and looped the gelding's reins about the post.

"Find anything?"

"Found some tracks," Vin said, untying his tin cup from behind his saddle and coming up to join Larabee under the shaded boardwalk. Picking up the bottle, he splashed a small measure of whiskey into it and leaned against the wall beside Chris. "Crooked-footed horse is back," Vin said, "and he's made himself a friend."

Larabee said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow.

"Smaller horse," Vin said. "Maybe fifteen hands. Shod, but not by Yosemite. I found some black tail hairs in one of the bushes along the wash."

Chris let his eyes wander up and down the street. Here and there teams stood dozing in front of the hardware and lazy cow ponies switched flies. There were horses of every size and color, bays, buckskins, blacks even the odd pinto. Any one of them could have been the source of the hair Vin had found.

"Could be anybody," he said grimly.

"Yep," Vin agreed, taking a small sip of the whiskey.

In sparse, quiet words, Vin outlined the story the tracks had told him. Frankly, it wasn't any more than what Larabee had expected.  
"McAllister's got eyes here," Chris said quietly.

Vin shrugged. "It goes to figure," he said. "When he dealt this game, he wasn't countin' on you sittin' down at the table."

Chris said nothing, merely picked up the bottle and refilled his glass.

"What do you want to do?"

Chris shifted the stub of a cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Have another drink," he said, and smiled. It was a dark, grim expression, and some might have taken it for the beginning of another infamous Larabee binge, but there was something faintly cunning in the emerald green eyes that Tanner recognized.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, dropping his voice a little.

Chris tilted the glass to his lips, and paused before downing the drink.

"Watch for the man that watches me."

Finishing the whiskey in his cup, Vin nodded and descended the steps. Yanking at the slip knot that secured the geldings reins, he led the horse down the street towards the livery. Chris reached for the bottle again, draining the last of its contents into his glass before signaling Inez to bring him another. No one noticed the small flutter of motion from the upper story where a lace curtain blew gently in the breeze. No one heard the soft creak of the floor boards as the gambler's thin figure moved away from the open window above.

"Josiah! –Hey! Josiah!" Nathan's voice echoed loudly down the back alley between the Church and the Grain Exchange. The preacher closed his eyes in momentary exasperation before slowing his step and turning to wait for the healer. He had not been looking particularly forward to this moment.

Nathan wasted no time in catching up. "Been lookin' all over for you," he said, closing the distance between them in a few quick and eager steps. "You're nearly as hard to pin down as Ezra."

Josiah tilted his head slightly. "I can't imagine he would be that hard to find," he said, taking the opportunity to deflect the discussion from himself. "Inez says he hasn't left his room the last three days."

"Oh, he's left it, all right." Nathan said darkly. "A body can't make it to the top of the front stairs before he's gone scootin' down the back. I been tryin' to check his dressings since the day before yesterday. Inez is the only one ever seems to catch him."

"She seems to be managing well enough," Josiah observed as they rounded the corner.

"Yeah," Nathan said, but there was doubt in his tone. He shook his head. "I just don't like the way Buck left things. –Lord knows Ezra ain't perfect, but he's got more than his share of troubles weighin' on his mind. He don't need Buck to add to it."

"Never thought I'd be hearin' you take Ezra's side," Josiah said, pausing on the threshold of the church.

Nathan frowned. "Surprises me too," he admitted, following Josiah inside. "But then Ezra surprised me plenty as of late, takin' what he did for me. Selfless acts generally don't rate that high on his priority list. When he does come across with one, he must have a pretty good reason."

"Did he?" Josiah asked, wondering now, just what had passed between Standish and Jackson for this miraculous shift in the healer's perspective.

Nathan was quiet for a moment. "He thought so," he said quietly.

There was something in Nathan's tone that gave Josiah pause. "You don't sound as certain," he observed.

Nathan shrugged awkwardly. "I don't reckon I am," he said finally. "There's just some things a man ain't never goin' to ever make up for, or ever understand because he ain't lived it."

Josiah nodded slowly as he absorbed Nathan's words, turning them over in his mind, analyzing them for what they didn't actually say. "You talkin' about Ezra, or you?"

Nathan sighed heavily. "I don't know," he said at last.

Josiah simply nodded, and the two men lapsed into another brief silence as the quiet, empty peace of the room engulfed them. The preacher's eyes settled on the pulpit and simple wooden cross at the front of the room as he waited for the real reason Nathan had sought him out.

"You know, you never did say much about how Tastanagi's people were getting' on." Nathan waited as the silence deepened between then. "In fact, you barely said two words about it. Now I know you can be a man of mighty few words, Josiah, but this is sparse even for you. I get the feelin' there's something you ain't telling me. I'm starting to wonder if there's been trouble."

_Not yet,_ Josiah thought grimly, _but there will be._ The preacher shrugged. "No trouble," he said simply. "They're doing well, -well as could be expected anyways, considering the times. No one seems to have bothered them as of late."

Nathan sighed. "Don't look for that to last forever," he said darkly.

"No," Josiah agreed.

Another silence.

"How's Rain?"

"She's well," Josiah said.

Nathan frowned at the brevity of the answer. "You sure?" he pressed.

Josiah smiled faintly. "Only the Almighty can be certain of anything," he said cryptically.

Nathan considered him for a long moment. "Don't know as I've ever seen you come back from a visit with the people and have so little to say about it," he said.

The preacher shrugged. "There was little to say. I did what Chris asked, I warned them to keep an eye out." He only felt a twinge of guilt at the answer. It wasn't a lie. It simply wasn't the entire truth. Josiah wondered if this was the slippery slope down which Ezra skated every day.

"Rain ask after me?" Nathan queried, his voice hopeful.

"She did," Josiah said.

"Talkin' to you is like pullin' teeth," Nathan muttered.

"Maybe I'm not the one you should be talkin' to," Josiah returned, unable to completely disguise his irritation.

Nathan scowled at him. "Just what's got into you, Josiah? If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been avoiding me ever since you came back from the village. Just what is it you're not telling me?" he demanded.

_A lot of things, _Josiah thought grimly, but frankly Nathan would discover most of it in time. When it came to the topic of the girl, however, he wasn't so sure that his friend would see the light. Lord knew he hadn't when he had been that age.

"When was the last time you saw that girl?" Josiah demanded softly, approaching the rough wooden pulpit and circling slowly around it.

Nathan frowned. "A while back," he allowed. "It was after the Nichols boys came huntin' Chris's father-in-law, - and before that whole mess with that Ella Parks woman," he paused, considering. "I reckon it was about the time we had that run-in with those women bounty hunters."

"As I recall, she came to see you," Josiah said, letting his hands fall to either side of the open bible centered neatly upon the pulpit and resting his weight upon it upon the simple wooden stand. It was a familiar pose, one Nathan had seen Josiah strike a hundred times, whether it be in one of his lightly attended Sunday sermons or in one of his frequent moments of personal devotion. This time, however, something was different. There was an air about the preacher that suggested not so much devout minister as… inquisitor.

Nathan nodded, aware of the tiny knot of unease that was rapidly flowering into something larger, more disconcerting. "She came to see the town," he said. "To see how I lived." He looked grimly through the dusty windows of the church to the weathered street beyond. "I reckon it didn't suit her much."

"And when was the last time you went to see her?" The preacher pressed.

Nathan's brow furrowed as he considered not only the question, but the path down which it was leading him. "I guess it was back this winter, when that new Sheriff came to town and run us all off." Nathan shook his head in annoyance, "you know all that, Josiah. You went with me. –What are you gettin' at?"

Josiah was silent a moment as he considered his words. "I think it's more what you're not getting around to."

The healer's impatience was practically radiating off of him as he glared at his friend. "And just what would that be?" he demanded.

Josiah scooped up the bible, closing it with a decisive snap. "A decision," he said quietly, and strode out of the church.

""nother one, 'nez"

Inez paused a moment, then set the glass that she had been drying down on the polished bar with a careful, deliberate clink.

"The bar is closed," she said succinctly.

Buck shot her a look filled with bleary eyed belligerence. "Since when?" he groused.

"Since now," she replied, wiping the towel one last time across the top of the polished bar. "It is almost time for supper. The evening rush will be starting soon, and I have much to do."

"Like playin' nursemaid to Standish." Buck said darkly.

After three days of his surly patronage, it was the last straw.

"_Basta!"_ Inez snapped, tossing the towel down onto the bar top. "Enough of this foolishness!" she exclaimed, skewering the big man with a dark and glittering gaze. "What is the matter with you?" she demanded, "you act like children!"

Buck opened his mouth to protest, but his words were driven back by the rapid fury of Inez's outrage. "Ezra has not left his room for the last two days! He refuses to see anyone, not even Nathan, and barely speaks when I bring him his food and change his dressings. —And you!" Inez snapped, "you sit down here the whole time, drinking and sulking and staring holes in my ceiling! Even J.D. will have nothing to do with you! Tell me, Buck, what is this about?"

"Ask Ezra," Buck growled.

Inez would have none of it. "Ezra is not the one sitting in my bar room day after day sulking and driving away the customers. I'm asking _you."_

Her demand was met with silence. She studied him for a long moment as she considered the uneasy tranquility of the last few days. "It is about that dead man, isn't it, the one that Larabee and Josiah brought back?"

"Sam Teale," Buck supplied ominously.

Inez nodded. "Si," she said. "Nothing has been right since that day. Senor Larabee sits all day on the boardwalk watching and drinking, Vin rides endlessly around the town, Josiah avoids Nathan, J.D. avoids you, and Ezra avoids everyone. I am tired of it!" She slapped her palm down upon the bar. "Tell me, Buck, what is going on!"

"He's one 'a them." Buck muttered.

"Quien?" Inez demanded. "One of who?"

"One of their kind," Buck spat. "One like Teale. He _knew_ Teale. He rode with Teale. He rode with Quantrill."

Inez cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. "From what I hear, many people knew Senor Teale. Did they ride with him as well?"

Buck shook his head obstinately. "Inez, you don't understand. Men like Teale, men who did the things he did, they don't just go around sharin' that with anybody. They only talk about it with somebody who's _been there, _and Ezra knew."

Inez was silent for a long moment. Then, picking up the towel she had tossed down on the bar top, she began to polish another glass.

"Do you remember when I first came here?"

Buck snorted. "I'm not likely to forget."

"I almost didn't stay," she said softly. "When Don Paulo came… with his men…" she shook her head. "I intended to leave… to run. I was so afraid; I went to the Church to pray for the strength to run again. That's when Senora Travis found me."

Inez set down the glass and towel, and leaned across the bar, daring Buck to break her dark, piercing gaze. "I will never forget what she said to me. She said 'if bad things must happen, then let them happen here.' She was right about that. This is a place for starting over, for new beginnings, for taking all the horrible things in the past and learning from them to build something stronger, something better.

"I did not stay because Ezra offered me a job and a chance to work. I did not stay because Vin and Nathan and Josiah were kind. I did not stay because you were so noble and wanting to protect me. I didn't stay because Senor Chris is so dangerous and fierce with a gun."

A thick, palpable silence fell across the tap room as she paused for breath. For a moment, she was aware only of the ticking of the old Regulator clock and the faint creak and rumble of wagon wheels from the street as she paused to gather her thoughts. Bleary eyed and stubborn as Buck appeared, she sensed a difference in him, a stillness that suggested her words were starting to penetrate the alcohol and anger that clouded his senses.

Drawing a deep breath, she summoned what was left of her frayed patience and struggled for the words that would make him understand.

"I stayed," she said patiently, "because Ezra is cunning, and knows the value of retreat. Senor Chris is dangerous because he simply does not care whether he lives or dies, J.D. is young and hopeful, you are strong and kind, Senor Vin sees things others do not, Nathan heals those that no one else will touch, and Josiah has faith when all around him have lost it. I stayed because all of you together are stronger than whatever bad things you carry with you."

Buck shook his head angrily. "You don't understand, Inez! You don't know—"

"No!" Inez said fiercely, "I don't know! –And neither do you! I don't know who he was before he came here! I don't know who he rode with or what he did!" Her dark gaze narrowed, drilling into him with painful intensity. "Who was I? Who were you?"

The big man was silent now, smoldering, but silent and she wondered if perhaps she had finally argued her way through that thick skull of his.

"We all have bad things in our past, Buck," Inez said quietly, "things we have done, things we regret …things we cannot take back." She folded the damp towel with neat precise movements and draped it to dry on the small rod behind the bar. "I don't know who he was, or what he has done any more than the rest of you, but I do know this: If you really want to know about Senor Standish, you don't have to lean on my bar all day growling and speculating and imagining what you do not know.

Inez straightened, tossing her head in exasperation. "You want to know what kind of man Ezra would ride with?" She picked up her towel and whipped it across her shoulder with a deft snap before gesturing behind her to the ornate back bar with the polished mirror glinting softly in the faint daylight that filtered through the windows. She tilted her head to indicate the dark reflection of the large, sullen figure leaning on the end of her bar.

"Ask him"


End file.
